Misselthwaite Again
by CityWilderness
Summary: Fiction based on the original book by F. H. Burnett, as well as the 1993 film adaption. Mary, Dickon and Colin are faced with love and war, and yet their friendship remains as strong as ever. Mary/ Dickon, Colin/ OC This is not one for people who dislike Colin. I will be making sure that he plays a large role in this story, as I've always had a soft spot for him. T for safety.
1. Goodbyes

**Hi everyone, this is my first ever FF attempt, and I was very hesitant about putting it out there. The Secret Garden is one of my favourite books, and the 1993 adaption is my all-time favourite childhood movie, although I've seen and enjoyed other versions too. I'd greatly appreciate any reviews, particularly those with tips/constructive criticism! If there are any spelling/grammar mistakes please let me know so that I can rectify them. The characters will be speaking Yorkshire at points, so I've tried to copy Burnett's style as best as possible for that, and have gone with what sounds right to me- sorry for any mistakes! **

* * *

Mary stood on the platform, hot, acrid air from the train billowing around her, making her eyes sting. She turned away and pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, blinking furiously. Just because Mary Lennox had learned _how_ to cry, it didn't mean that she intended to do it in public. She dabbed at her eyes quickly, hoping that no-one would notice, as two figured appeared from the mist.

The first was tall, with a slim build and fair, tousled hair. His agate grey eyes were large, and were rimmed with immense dark lashes that made them seem even larger. His face was set in determination, though his bitten lip revealed his inner fear, and his eyes were hard, though easy to read for someone as practised as Mary. He stepped towards her, and they slid into an embrace that was as easy as breathing.

"You be careful, Colin Craven," Mary whispered. "I didn't save your life for nothing." She felt his laughter vibrate in his chest, though his voice was solemn as he answered.

"I'll try, Mary. I'll try." He crushed her tighter and then stooped lower to promise her something. "I'll keep him safe, Mary. I will." His breath tickled her ear, and Mary could smell his aftershave- warm and spicy.

She dug her fingers into his arms, forcing him to look her in the eye. "He'll do the same for you. Don't forget it."

Colin continued to hold her gaze, before he nudged her playfully in the ribs, as though to diffuse the sudden tension between them. "I'll be thinking of you, stuck in dreary old London." His voice was intentionally light and he sighed theatrically. "Poor, poor Mary. They do say it's a man's world, after all."

Her eyes narrowed. "Make sure it's a world you come back to, then." She paused, lowering her voice. There was no trace of humour in it. "I'm serious, Colin. This isn't about glory and honour. This is life and death. Don't you dare forget it."

Colin looked directly into her eyes again. "I won't, Mary. Too many of my thoughts have been about death already." He didn't have to explain further to her. She knew. She knew better than anyone else. "Look after father," he said, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. "I don't want him to worry."

Mary sighed. "He'll always worry. Just don't give him cause to justify it."

Colin pulled away and held her at arms length, examining her. "Stay out of trouble, Mary. If you can." He smirked as he walked away, but Mary could see the tears that had gathered in his eyes. She closed hers, wishing she were anywhere but here, but abruptly opened them again as another pair of arms slid around her.

Round blue eyes were staring into hers, russet hair nearly falling into them. A wide mouth smiled, and an upturned nose wrinkled at the smell of the steaming train.

"Never could abide trains," Dickon said, his brow furrowing. "Always make me think o' cities an' grey dead things instead o' things green an' livin'."

Mary smiled sadly up at him. "Canna say I disagree with thee, Dickon," she sighed, tears threatening to form again. "I hate war."

"Aye," he said, eyes growing distant. "I mun agree wi' that."

Mary's heart began to thump faster, and she pulled him closer. "Promise me, Dickon. Promise me you'll come home safe."

Dickon looked at her steadily. "Tha knows I canna promise thee that. But I promise I'll do everythin' I can."

"You've done it before. Please do it again."

Dickon smiled sadly at her. "I'll try."

Mary barely thought about his words echoing Colin's, and pulled him even further towards her, so close that their noses touched. "I love thee, Dickon Sowerby. I love thee wit' all my heart."

"Aye," Dickon smiled again, and this time it reached his eyes. "I know that. And I've loved thee ever since tha were just a scrawny, contrary miss beggin' me to keep tha's secret."

She kissed him quickly, quietly on the lips, heart thudding in time to his. "Come back to me," she said. "I'll be waiting."

Dickon's eyes were suddenly serious and he bent low to whisper to her, lips grazing her ear. "I'll keep him safe, Mary. I promise thee that. I'll keep him safe."

She grabbed hold of his lapels, trying desperately to convey her terror. "He'll try something Dickon, I know he will. He'll want some glory, to be a hero," she paused, feeling her stomach flailing around inside her. "You can't let him, Dickon. I can't lose him."

She didn't need to tell him that she couldn't lose him either- he knew. He knew from the clutch of her hands on his jacket, the strength with which she held him to her, the frantic look in her eyes. But most of all, he knew from the desperate pounding of her heart as it threatened to burst through her dress, proclaiming to all that she, Mary Lennox, loved him. Mary didn't need to tell Dickon that she couldn't lose him, because losing him was something too terrible to begin to comprehend.

* * *

Colin strode away from Mary, biting the inside of his cheek to force the tears away. The past 8 years of his life glimmered before his eyes; memories of shouting, laughing children, hidden behind the high, safe walls of their nest. Mary, screaming at him that he wasn't ill, her face furious as she leant over him. A rush of cool, sweet air finding his lungs, his heart threatening to burst with such fierce joy that he felt as though he could live forever and ever and ever. The long summer days spent in the garden, the homely, comforting taste of bread and potatoes and milk, the softness of Mrs Sowerby's arms as she enveloped him in her cloak, and the feeling that, for the first time in his life, he was loved. And then, many years later, his appalling, consuming jealousy as Mary made her feelings for Dickon clear, before the realisation that he had accepted it a long time before, one summer day with a camera and a swing.

Colin would always love Mary, but now it was the part that should, the part that loved her with his whole being for being a sister to him in every way that mattered. As he grew older, he began to understand that they both loved too hard and fought too hard to be together. The good times would be an unforgettable high, but the bad would be terrible lows, with both as stubborn and obstinate as the other. No, Mary didn't need to meet fire with fire, she needed the clear stream that was Dickon, to cool her temper, pacify her and make her understand when she was wrong, in a way that was gentle, as though she were a wounded animal.

"Colin." The voice broke him out of his reverie. He turned to find his father, looking older than ever before. Archibald's once thick brown hair was grey and limp, as though his son's departure had sucked the life from it. He leaned heavily on the cane that he had almost abandoned 8 years ago, when joy caused his aches and pains to fade, and his once happy brown eyes had regained their haunted look.

* * *

Archibald looked at his son, his heart torn between bursting with pride and breaking with loss. The sickly, cross child had grown into a handsome, tall man, and his eyes were alight with the life and love that had once inhabited another pair.

His voice was gruff. "Stay safe."

Colin's face took on a look of concern, his eyes unhappy. Archie had to look away from them, he couldn't bare to think of those eyes as unhappy now, not when they'd spent 10 years being so.

"Father," his son's voice forced Archie to look again. "Father, you can't leave again." Archie stared at his son in surprise.

"No matter how bad it gets," Colin continued, holding his father's gaze, "you can't go off again. Mary will need you. I know she won't act like it, but she will." He paused, and Archie could see him swallow. "I need you. And if- anything... happens to me," he swallowed again, choking out the words, "don't leave her, father. Don't lock yourself up, don't lock the house up and... for God's sake, do not lock the garden up."

Colin shuddered, and Archie could see how much effort it was taking for his son to force out these words, to bring up things long buried. Colin's eyes were suddenly flashing and Archie was almost alarmed as his son took hold of his crooked shoulders, gripping them tightly.

"Promise me, father," he said, breathing hard. Archie winced at the pain, but was grateful as it brought him quickly to his senses.

"I promise, Colin. But please... don't let it come to that."

The pressure disappeared and Archie's son stepped back, the sudden sunlight turning his hair to spun gold. His grin was self-assured, cocky and utterly _Colin_.

"It won't!"

Archie pretended to smile, but he could see that despite the confident exterior, his son's fears were there, as were his own. He hoped with all his heart that they were unfounded.

* * *

As Mary watched the train roll away, taking with it the fumes, dust and lives of many innocent people, she couldn't stifle the terrible feeling that one of her boys would not be coming safely back.


	2. London Life

**A huge thanks to everyone who has favourited/followed this story! I've been on holiday for a few weeks and so haven't had a chance to update, but it was a lovely surprise to get back and find that people would like to read more. The reviews absolutely made my day- thank you. **

Months passed slowly for Mary in London. They were all the same- dull and grey, with not so much as a beam of sunlight to brighten things. At Misselthwaite, each season brought a new surprise in the garden- a blanket of pure snow, transforming it into an Ice Queen's kingdom; a treasury of pale buds preparing to open; flowers blooming higher and brighter until they almost covered the dead tree from which the swing hung; a rainstorm of swirling russet leaves, the colour of Dickon's hair...

Dickon. How Mary missed him. Not a day went by when she did not write to him, even if she could only think of fashionable, trivial things. His letters to her were erratic, and sometimes did not arrive at all, but her heart swelled when she saw his large uneven handwriting upon an envelope. They mainly contained tales of his fellow soldiers, and brushed over the unsavoury aspects of war, but Mary found herself wishing for an accurate account with no details spared, so that she could truly understand what he was going through.

Colin was no better, though his letters were more fluent than Dickon's. He tried for witty anecdotes, but Mary could tell that his heart wasn't in it. He often asked how things were at home, but Mary could not say for certain, having only returned to Misselthwaite once since her boys had left. The corridors and gardens seemed empty and sad now, and Mary often wondered how her uncle could stand it. But then, she supposed, Archie had his estate to run, which took up lots of time. She suspected that if it was safe to travel, he would have taken off by now, but, as it wasn't, her uncle remained in his huge rattling house, alone.

Mary had often considered returning to Misselthwaite, but, as much as she disliked London, at least the hustle and bustle kept her busy. She couldn't bear to be alone with her thoughts and fears right now. Instead, she was staying with some of Archibald's friends, whose contact he'd re-established during the past happy 8 years. When she had first arrived, her hosts had gasped at how much she looked like her mother, whom they had known before her relocation to India. Mary had shrugged off the compliments, as she barely knew what her had mother looked like, the few memories having dulled as time passed. She remembered a quite statuesque woman, with creamy skin, large eyes and smiling lips, though Mary's mother's smiles had never been for her daughter.

"Mary?" A voice interrupted her thoughts, causing her to look up. Elizabeth Templeton stood framed in the doorway, and Mary smiled when she saw her.

Lizzie was not conventionally pretty, but Mary thought the girl's dark hair and green eyes were much more interesting than her own blonde hair and hazel eyes. She was petite, no more than 5' 2", with a tiny waist and a heart shaped face. Lizzie was too small to be considered elegant, and was dwarfed by every woman to stand near her. She was overlooked by so many people, as they would glance down once at her, before talking to another over her head. Perhaps it was this that had made her more observant than other people, as she had to spend a lot of time listening to conversations rather than being actively part of them. She had a wicked sense of humour, similar to Mary's own, and Mary felt as though she was understood by Lizzie better than anyone else she had met in London. For Mary knew what it was like to be overlooked, although now she was often the centre of attention at parties, much to her dismay.

"Come in, Lizzie," Mary called, putting down her pen and moving her unfinished letter aside. Lizzie sat on the bed, drawing her legs up underneath her and slouching now that no-one of importance could see her.

"So..." Lizzie said, eyeing Mary expectantly.

Mary arched an eyebrow, confused by her friend's impish expression. "So, what?"

Lizzie leant forward and grinned at her. "So, what happened with Edmund Harries last night?"

"Oh, him." Mary frowned. "Nothing, really."

Lizzie looked disappointed. "What do you mean, nothing?"

Mary sighed, slightly exasperated. "I mean, nothing happened," she said, remembering the unwanted attentions of Edmund, who'd tried to talk to her about dress fabrics, of all things! "He's so terribly dull!"

Lizzie laughed at her, and shook her head, fondly. "Mary Lennox! Almost every eligible young woman in London would give their right hands to have received as much attention as you did from Edmund Harries!" She grinned again. "Of course, I'd rather have both my hands, but then I am considered slightly odd by the majority of society..."

Mary grimaced, too bothered by the thought of Edmund Harries being desirable to appreciate her friend's last comment. "That makes it even worse, Lizzie! I'm not interested in him at all!"

Lizzie eyed her again, as though trying to read Mary's thoughts. "So who are you interested in, Mary? Please do enlighten me, because you haven't been interested in... well... anyone the entire time you've been here!"

Mary couldn't help herself- she blushed.

It was Lizzie's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Aah," she said, somewhat gleefully. "So there is someone! Well, tell me! Who is the lucky fellow?"

Mary groaned and put her head in her hands. She knew that she could trust Lizzie, but she was nervous about her friend's reaction to her answer. She spread her fingers and looked at Lizzie through the gaps.

"The truth is, Lizzie, I am completely, utterly, hopelessly in love with," she paused, considering how best to reveal Dickon's status, before remembering Colin's angry description of him when they were 10 years old. "A common cottage boy off the moor."

Lizzie didn't laugh, or gasp or begin to shout. Infact, she didn't even look surprised. She simply raised one eyebrow slightly, and asked, in an incredulous voice, "Then what on earth are you doing here, breaking everyone's hearts?"

Mary's mouth gaped open, in a very unladylike way.

"What do you mean, breaking everyone's hearts?" she asked, in an equally incredulous voice.

The other girl rolled her eyes as though it was very obvious, and that Mary was quite stupid for not knowing.

"Haven't you noticed how every man's head turns as you walk into a room? How every man asks you for a dance? How they almost fall over each other to entertain you?" Lizzie paused and her grin grew wider. "Quite literally, actually! I saw Arthur Squires fall flat on his face as he tripped over his own feet in his haste to get to you! No-one bothered to help him up, as they were already clustered around you."

Mary shook her head. "I just thought they were being polite..." She trailed off.

"No, stupid! They're all interested in you! Lord Craven's mysterious niece who lived in India for 10 years. The girl who, after that, didn't seem to step a foot outside of Yorkshire until she was 16! They've known of almost every other girl in their circles since she was old enough to toddle, but here you are, on your first real stay away from that Manor of yours, almost no-one having heard of you! You're the new craze, Mary Lennox," said Lizzie, wondering idly what her Grandmama would think about her rather modern language, "and everyone wants to get in on it."

Lizzie sat back and looked at Mary triumphantly, but Mary's stomach was twisting uneasily as she processed this new information.

"Well, if everyone is curious about me, I bet they're simply dying to know about Colin!" She blurted out, thinking longingly of her cousin.

Lizzie frowned slightly. "No, why would people be that interested in Colin?" she asked, her own curiosity piqued.

_Oh, well done! _Mary thought._ Now you're going to have to find a way to get yourself, and Colin for that matter, out of this._ She remained silent for a minute, wondering how to wriggle out of this tight spot.

"Well," she began, "he's had almost the same upbringing as me..."

Impatient, Lizzie shook her head. "But people know Colin! He's been at school with lots of the them since... 14?... Yes, 14, and has been to plenty of parties and such. You on the other hand, had a governess at home, and then went off to finishing school, and then made your debut at 17, so people have only known you for a year, Mary. That's almost unheard of!"

Mary allowed herself a quick scowl, before schooling her features into an expression of innocent surprise.

"Well, I wish people wouldn't be so terribly curious," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm to contrast her doe-eyed look. "There was nothing odd or gossip-worthy about my upbringing."

She hoped that her tone had a finality to it, so Lizzie wouldn't question her further. In truth, her first year of living at Misselthwaite had been the strangest of her life, but she didn't intend to tell anyone about it, especially for Colin's sake. Instead, she changed the topic.

"So, Lizzie, is there anyone that has particularly caught your eye?"

Lizzie laughed shortly. "No, no-one's eyes are at my level. It's impossible for them to be caught, I fear! Although it wouldn't matter if someone had managed to catch my eye. They'd have to notice me back, and it's hard to get noticed when you aren't tall like Sophia, don't have blue eyes like Jemima, or have blonde hair like you!"

Mary's eyes widened at the note of anger in her friend's voice, and then she found herself indignantly defensive.

"Shut up, Lizzie! Sophia and Jemima don't have half a brain to string between them, and as for having blonde hair like me, it's not all it's lived up to be!"

Lizzie looked at her curiously, but before she could speak there was a timid knock at the door.

"Come in!" called Mary, crossly, glancing over at Lizzie, who had immediately sat bolt upright incase the room would be entered by her mother, or worse, grandmother.

The door opened quietly, and Ellen, Lizzie's maid, shuffled inside.

"There's a visitor for you, Miss Mary," she said, her voice a squeak. "Um, a Mr Edmund Harries. I, um, showed him to the parlour, ma'am."

As soon as the door had closed again, Mary let out a low groan. Lizzie, on the other hand, had a hand pressed to her face in an attempt to stifle a giggle.

"Oooh, Mary!" she said, shoulders almost shaking with mirth. "Mary, it's your favourite person!"

The glance Mary threw at her would have silenced a lesser person, but Lizzie only shook harder. Mary sighed resignedly, and left the room, wondering what on earth Edmund Harries wanted with her, and why he couldn't have come at another time, if he had to come at all.


	3. A Proposal or Two

"Edmund," said Mary, greeting him with as warm a smile as she could muster. "What a surprise!"

Edmund Harries was tall and strawberry blond, with a strong Grecian profile. As always, he was dressed impeccably in a smart suit, which was grey today, with a crisp white handkerchief in the pocket.

"My dear Miss Lennox," he said, offering her a knowing smile. "I am sure my visit is not a surprise to you at all."

Mary hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about, but she inclined her head politely, and waited for him to continue.

"I think, Mary," he said, with a rather pompous air, "that it is time our courtship moved on."

Mary was half way through swallowing some tea as he spoke, and she choked quite violently at his mention of courtship. He gave her the sort of look one might give a mischievous favourite grandchild, and continued.

"As I am quite certain that you approve of my attentions, and that our intentions regarding each other are the same, I would like to publicly announce our engagement at a dinner on Thursday."

Poor Mary could not remain ignorant any longer.

"Edmund," she exclaimed, eyes wide and shocked, "what are you talking about?!"

His hand waved away her shock with an indulgent smile.

"Now, Mary, this is no time for fun! You know perfectly well what I am talking about." His tone was playful, and his words delivered with mock severity.

"No," said Mary, eyebrows so raised that they were in danger of disappearing beneath her hair. "I really don't!"

He sighed. "Mary, Mary, Mary. I've been courting you for the past three months!"

"Have you?" asked Mary, thinking back to her conversation with Lizzie. "I can't say I've noticed!"

Edmund's smile abruptly vanished.

"Enough games, Mary. You are to be my wife, because I have made my intentions very clear since I first began to pay you particular attention, and you assented. Now, are you available for a dinner to announce our engagement on Thursday?"

"Edmund." Mary's voice was suddenly very cold. "I have no intention whatsoever of marrying you, let alone announcing our engagement. I have no idea how you got that impression, and if I appeared to be leading you on I can only apologise, but I will not marry you, and that is final."

It was Edmund's turn to look shocked.

"But Mary!" he spluttered. "You paid me particular attention! We were discussing fabrics only the other night-"

"No Edmund," Mary interrupted him, deadly calm. "You were talking at me about fabric. I'm afraid I had not the slightest interest."

Edmund was gaping at her, and Mary couldn't help but see a strong resemblance to a goldfish.

"But-"

"I suggest, if you are so desperately seeking a wife, that you turn your attentions to Sophia Huttlestone. She seems particularly taken with you. Good day, Mr Harries."

Mary swept from the room without so much as a backwards glance, leaving poor Edmund Harries to collect his coat and hat, and hurry away from the Templetons' house, the untouched engagement ring burning a hole in his pocket.

* * *

Mary found it easy to finish her letter to Colin now that she had an interesting anecdote to describe to him, and sat back to read over her handiwork.

My Dear Colin,

I miss you and Dickon terribly. Everything seems much less vibrant without you both, and I cannot wait until I see you next. London is busy, and I cannot really complain of boredom as there is something happening almost every night, but I never feel as though I can enjoy anything while there are so many young men in danger.

However, I often find myself noticing a particular bird or flower in Hyde Park, and turn automatically to point it out, before realising that you aren't here to appreciate it with me. The books in the Templeton library contain only the Latin names for plants, and without Dickon here I have no way to address them as though I were at home. It feels as though the very animals are more wild, which is strange, as they surely come across far more people here than they would on the moors, and I feel so lonely because I cannot have a conversation with our robin, or even one of the pigeons that frequent Trafalgar Square. To be truthful, Colin, I am desperate to go home, but I find that I cannot make myself board a train for fear that at Misselthwaite your absence will be all the more potent and painful.

The Templetons are very kind, and I have found a firm friend in Elizabeth. I think you would like her, Cousin, and I hope that once you are safely back with us and the war is over, you will meet her and enjoy her company as I do.

I write to your father every week, and he replies promptly, although his letters never contain anything new. I suppose this is good, as it means that everything at home is as it should be, so do not fret. I will go to him soon, I think, as it has been nearly four months since I saw him last.

Now Colin, I have some news! I was interrupted while writing this very letter by a call from Mr Edmund Harries, whom I believe you went to school with. As previously pointed out by Lizzie, he has been paying me particular attention over the past few months or so, although, I must confess, I barely noticed. Everyone is very attentive here, and I mistook his attentions for politeness. However, today he came to propose to me! Oh, how you would have laughed Colin, to see the poor man blundering his way through it- why! He did not once actually ask me if I would marry him! He quite presumed that I would, and so began planning our engagement dinner before I'd even agreed! I was in such shock that I was rather cold with him, and told him that I could not possibly be his wife. Oh dear, I did feel quite guilty afterwards, as I then stormed from the room without showing him out- I suppose my temper got the better of me again, but I always have been quite heated, as you well know! Whatever am I going to do when I see him again? How I wish you were here- we could go outside at parties to avoid him, and no-one would think anything of it as we are related, and I think of you very dearly as my brother.

But how are you? I cannot begin to imagine how awful it must be in France, but I hope that you are keeping your spirits up. Please give my love to Dickon if you see him, and don't mention Mr Harries- I don't want him to panic!

With all my love,

Mary

* * *

After Mary had regaled Lizzie with an account of Edmund's visit, they sat talking quietly.

"Have you ever wanted to, you know, actually help with the war effort?" asked Lizzie, eyes down. "Because I have. I feel like I'm doing nothing because my family is rich enough to not have to do any manual labour, and instead I'm prancing around at parties like a show pony, trying to find a husband in the small pool of men that aren't in France!" She was fiddling with the hem of her dress agitatedly.

"I thought you helped out at the hospital?"

"I did, but Mama made me stop because she didn't approve of my mixing with 'common' people." Lizzie sighed heavily.

"I agree with you, Liz." Mary replied, glad her friend had voiced the issue that plagued her constantly. "I want to do something." She sighed. "If I were at Misselthwaite I'd at least be gardening, or walking on the moor. But I can't face going back to those a hundred empty rooms, not with Colin and Dickon fighting for their lives!"

The was a ling silence, and then Lizzie's eyes slid up to meet hers, the beginning of a smile on her face. "A hundred empty rooms, you say?"


	4. Misselthwaite Again

**I have quite a backlog of chapters where I've been writing for a couple of weeks but haven't had Internet to post them, so I'll try to upload one or two a day for you, after I've checked everything. Thank you so much for the lovely reviews- its amazing to think that people are actually taking time to sit down and read this! **

"This is madness, Lizzie!" Mary said, shaking her head at her friend. "He'll never agree."

The two friends were on a train to Leeds, sitting opposite each other with a table between them.

"Why not?" asked Lizzie, reasonably. "He might be as frustrated as us. He might be simply itching to help the war effort!"

Mary looked out of the window at the trees speeding past, green smudges against the grey sky.

"You don't know Uncle Archie! He likes to be secluded, I highly doubt he'll want wounded soldiers traipsing all over his home."

Lizzie persisted. "But it's worth a try, isn't it?"

Mary smiled at her friend. "If it wasn't worth a try, we wouldn't be on a train to Leeds, would we?"

Lizzie grinned back. "I'm sure you'll get your way, Mary. From what I hear, you have your Uncle wrapped around your thumb!"

Mary chuckled to herself, and couldn't help but agree.

"Besides," continued Lizzie, "isn't country air supposed to have fabulous restorative properties?"

Mary looked up at her friend in vague alarm, but Lizzie was staring out of the window. She breathed a slow sigh of relief, having been terrified that Liz had somehow found out about Colin's past. Though, she thought, her friend did have a point, and she herself was proof that country air was good for you.

* * *

As the second, smaller train pulled into Thwaite station, Mary felt a huge weight lift off her chest. It was as though just being home could make her feel safer.

"Lizzie," she said, shaking her friend gently awake. "Lizzie, we need to get off."

"Oh, are we here already?" asked Lizzie, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"Yes, come on!"

As Mary had not bothered to telegram ahead, she and Lizzie were faced with either a good 5 mile walk, or flagging down a passing wagon and begging for a lift. They chose the lift.

The wagon trundled merrily along, and Mary grinned at Lizzie, who was perched on a hay bale beside her.

"I bet you've never done this before, have you?"

"No, but I have to say, it's rather less stuffy than a carriage!" Lizzie paused. "I hope your Uncle Archie won't mind this visit being so impromptu." She sounded slightly worried.

Mary smiled reassuringly. "Oh, Uncle Archie won't mind, it's Mrs Medlock you've got to watch out for!"

She giggled at the sudden alarm on Lizzie's face.

"But I'm sure she'll love you, so don't worry."

Mary leant back, eyes closed, and sniffed as the smells of the moor wafted around her. She was pleasantly surprised by Lizzie's exclamation of, "Oh, it's so beautiful!" and opened her eyes to take in the vast sea of gorse and heather that welcomed her home.

"Aye," Mary said. "That is is!"

Lizzie giggled at Mary's sudden change of accent, and Mary frowned at her.

"You'd better get used to it Lizzie! Almost everyone speaks broader Yorkshire than me, and you won't be able to understand any of it at first."

Mary grinned as the old farmer driving the wagon turned and winked at her.

"Tha'd better start practisin', lass," he said.

At last the wagon rolled to a stop at the park gates, and Misselthwaite was in reach. Mary stretched as she stood up, and then jumped down, mindless of her long skirts. Lizzie landed next to her, and then reached around to give the horse a pat.

"Thank you!" she said brightly to the farmer, before pressing a coin into his hand.

He tipped his hat to her. "Anytime, lass, but I mun get goin' now." He turned to Mary. "Say 'ello to ol' Ben Weatherstaff for me, Miss Mary, and tell 'im to come an' see me e'ry now an' then."

Mary smiled and nodded in assent, before picking up her suitcase and beckoning Lizzie to follow her.

"It's just up this drive and round the corner," she said. "Then we'll be home!" Mary's stomach quite flipped with joy, and she sped up, walking as fast as she could with a heavy suitcase in one hand and an umbrella in the other.

They rounded the bend after a mile or so of tree-lined avenue and then, quite suddenly, Misselthwaite was in view. It was an immensely long building, curving around a courtyard. The stone was a greyish honey colour, with a huge oak door set in the centre with steps leading up to it. The two women climbed the steps gratefully, for they were both tired from their journey. Mary knocked hard on the door, and soon it was opened by none other than Mrs Medlock, who looked mightily shocked to find her young charge upon the doorstep when she should be in London.

"Well upon my word!" She exclaimed, before ushering them inside. "You might've telegrammed ahead." Her tone was reproachful, as though she'd half forgotten that Mary was 18, and not 10.

"It's nice to see you too!" said Mary, rolling her eyes. "This is Elizabeth Templeton, Mrs Medlock, a friend from London. Please ask someone to get a room ready for her." Mary surveyed the hall, pleased that nothing had changed. "Where's John? Could he take our bags upstairs? Oh, and where's my Uncle?"

Mrs Medlock looked suddenly sad.

"John is no longer with us, Miss Mary. He was killed in France."

Mary felt her stomach drop a few inches. Until now she'd almost believed that Misselthwaite would escape the war unscathed, as though distance would stop men being called up to be killed. Then she remembered that both Dickon and Colin were gone, and that nowhere was safe.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Has anyone else...?" Her voice trailed off, and she suddenly felt the size of a mouse.

"Two stable boys, an under gardener and the third footman," Medlock said shortly. "War's everywhere, Miss Mary, even if the fighting is in France. Thomas will see to your bags. Thank God he isn't old enough to fight. Your Uncle is in the library as far as I am aware."

With that, she bustled off, leaving Mary staring hopelessly after her. She sighed, and took Lizzie's arm.

"We may as well ask him now, Lizzie. There's no point delaying it."

* * *

"Mary?" Archie asked, voice full of surprise and delight. "What are you doing here?"

He moved forwards to give his niece a hug, and then held her at arms length. He frowned. "You look thinner, are you eating enough?"

Mary gave him a weary smile. "I'm fine Uncle, really." She turned to the girl next to her, and Archie smiled pleasantly, recognising her almost immediately.

"This is-"

"Elizabeth Templeton! You look just like your mother."

Elizabeth smiled back, looking quite comfortable. "A much shorter version. She and my Grandmama are always berating me about my height." She sighed. "I take after my father there, I fear."

Archie laughed, very glad that his niece was back.

"Please, do sit down." He gestured to the arm chairs arranged around the fire, before sitting down heavily himself. He leant forward and planted his elbows on his knees, surveying his niece.

"Now, Mary. What it is you're after? This isn't merely a visit for pleasure, I assume."

Mary looked down, and Archie was sure she blushed, although it may have been a trick of the firelight.

"No Uncle, it isn't just for pleasure, although I have missed home dreadfully. You see, Lizzie and I feel rather out of things in London."

Archie raised an eyebrow. "Out of things? In London? Surely you'd be very much in the thick of things!"

"You see Sir," Lizzie spoke for her friend, "we feel rather ashamed in London, because we are expected to continue to husband-hunt and attend social gatherings, while all the young men are away risking their lives." She stopped, waiting for some sort of reaction. He frowned.

"So you're fed up with London because all of the eligible young men are gone?"

"No!" Mary burst out. "No, we feel bad because we're enjoying ourselves while they most certainly aren't!"

Archie smirked to himself- he very much enjoyed winding Mary up.

"So you've come back to Misselthwaite because you most definitely won't enjoy yourselves?"

Mary had caught on, and she glared at him.

"Uncle Archibald! We came here to ask you if we could make some use of Misselthwaite to help the war effort, because there's nothing that we can do in London except knit socks!"

Now Archie really did look shocked. Use Misselthwate? His home?

"What exactly are you suggesting, Mary?" His tone was a little harsher than he intended, and he tried in vain to soften it. Mary looked a little alarmed, but Elizabeth Templeton was having none of it.

"Lord Craven, you have a large house with many rooms that are unused at the moment, so why don't you make use of them? Turn Misselthwaite into an auxiliary hospital for the wounded soliders! The Red Cross are desperate for large spaces like this."

Archie stared at the young woman in front of him, who suddenly so reminded him of his wife, despite their physical differences. Her eyes were lit up so brightly, and she seemed filled with an almost violent, consuming urge to help someone. Archie wondered what made this young woman so unbelievably determined. She seemed to read his mind, and continued.

"All my life, I've been overlooked. Just for once, I'd... Well, we'd, like to do something to make a difference. I see the nurses in London, working day in, day out to save lives, and yet I cannot help because my class, or rather, my mother, prevents it! And here, you have a perfect opportunity to actually do something! To make a difference! Please, please let us do this."

Archie eyed the young woman, her passionate, pleading face, and then looked across to his niece, whose eyes were burning with hope and defiance. It would be just like Mary, he thought, to run off to France to help directly if she couldn't help from here. It was part pride, part fear for his niece that made him sigh resignedly and then say with a twinkle in his eye, "Mrs Medlock will have a fit when I tell her."


	5. Letters

My Dear Mary,

Thank you for your letter. I always look forward to them- they offer a spark of regularity in a very irregular world. I am fine- well, as fine as I can be- as is Dickon, who is currently too busy to write back to you. I have pursuaded him, however, to write a quick note at the end of ths, so that you may have something from him in his own words.

Your account of Edmund Harries' proposal did brighten my day, although I am confused as to why an able man of fighting age is not here, doing his duty for his country, instead of bagging himself a wife when all the competition is gone! Or rather, attempting to bag himself a wife. I haven't mentioned this to Dickon, as you asked, although I have a feeling that he expected something like this to happen, what with you there and him across the Channel.

I'm afraid this will have to be quite short, as I have less and less time to write these days. I am very glad that you have found a friend in London, and I look forward to meeting her. I'm quite surprised that I don't know her already- does she keep under the radar? I am due a month's leave in 3 weeks time, so I hope you'll bring her to Misselthwaite for me to meet her then. I intend to spend the full month at home in our garden- how I miss it! Dickon has leave a little after me, but I think there are two weeks where we should both be at home. Just think! The three of us back together again!

Give my love to Father, and everyone else at home- even Medlock!

Your loving cousin,

Colin

Next is the bit from Dickon.

Mary,

I have very little time to write this, but I'll try to write in proper English for you.

I miss you very much, and I'm sure you know how much I love you. It feels as though the very sky is darker when you are not here, although the sun is no less hot, and we are all burning up in these foul mud-pits. The trenches make me realise that the earth can be on both the side of God, and the side of the Devil, as how can it be otherwise that the same thing can make flowers bloom and then grown men cry? In winter the earth is churned and sludgy from the contant rain, but in summer it is baked so hard that the heat comes off it as steam. What I wouldn't give to smell the sweet breeze of Yorkshire instead of festering wounds and rats.

I am due leave fairly soon, and I will return to Misselthwaite as fast as I can.

Please give my love to Mother and Martha and the rest of them.

I love thee, Mary Lennox. Wait for me.

Dickon

* * *

Mary set the letter aside and stood up, sighing in relief as she stretched. She would reply later, but, for now, there were preparations to be made.

Two weeks had passed since Lord Craven had accepted the idea of turning Misselthwaite into an auxiliary hospital to help the wounded. Dr Craven, Archie's cousin, had arrived to offer advice. He wouldn't be the doctor in charge of proceedings, as he was needed in and around Thwaite, and so another doctor was arriving tomorrow, along with a matron, a commandant, and the first few soldiers.

The whole Manor was busy and excited. There were few men left on the estate, so boys of 15 or so had been roped in from the village. Mr Craven would pay them for their help of course, but most would have come anyway, desperate to do something useful to help those like their brothers, fathers, uncles and cousins who were away fighting. The money would be a help to the wives and children left behind, however, even if they lost their sons' labour a few days a week.

Mary had never seen the manor so spotless. Of course, rooms had been opened up when she and Colin had lived here full time, but since they'd gone away to school, things had gradually been shut off again to save money and time. Now, doors and windows were flung open and the breeze was carried in from the moor. Mary trotted contentedly down a corridor lined with bedrooms. She paused outside the second door, listening intently to a familiar humming.

"Martha!" Mary squealed, and flung herself into her arms.

"Eh, Miss Mary! It's right good t' see thee!" Martha smiled her cheerful smile as she dusted out the grate of the fireplace. Her stomach was large and swollen, and she truly seemed to glow. Mary frowned.

"Should you be doing that?"

Martha laughed. "O' course! I've got to be doin' somethin' useful. I'm downright glad Lord Craven is doin' this- I've been goin' mad wi' nothin' to do all day!"

"But, haven't you got to look after Annie?"

"Aye, but she don't take much lookin' after. She's nearly four now, an' is startin' to help me 'round the house!" Martha took one look at Mary's confused expression, and burst into a hearty laugh.

"Oh, Miss Mary!" she said. "Tha' face o' yours don't half remind me o' when tha first came to Misselthwaite!"

"Why?"

Martha giggled.

"Well, tha did look so horrified tha' a four year ol' was helpin' wi' th' housework tha' i' reminded me o' when tha was 10 an' couldn' dress thyself!"

Mary groaned loudly, but was smiling.

"Please don' remind me, Martha! An' tha just looked a' me like I was crazy!" She sighed. "Is there anythin' tha wants me to do?"

Martha laughed again. "Eh, tha has changed, Miss!" She surveyed the room with a practised eye. "Put them sheets on th' bed. Tha' would be a mighty help."

Mary nodded and began her task. Sometimes she found housework almost relaxing, though she doubted that Martha or anyone else would agree with her. The sheets were good quality, but plain and white. Practical, Mary supposed, though she couldn't help feeling as though they belonged in a big London hospital.

"How're thee, Martha? How's thy family?"

Martha had finished with the grate, and she heaved herself up and sat down in a chair.

"Well, Mother's as well as she can be, what with her worryin' 'bout Dickon all th' time. I think she's glad tha' th' next two are girls, so hopefully no more of them'll have to go off to war. 'Lizbeth Ellen's got a sweetheart, so she'll be hopin' for a marriage soon. She's 18 now, same as thee. How time flies!"

"Have you had news from Reg? Is he alright?"

"Eh, he's doin' ok, I suppose. I jes' wan' him back wi' me though. He's bin gone too long. I only hope this one doesn' arrive before he gets back!" She patted her belly fondly. "I'm hopin' for a boy this time. I'll call 'im Reginald, after 'is father, an' then Dickon after 'is Uncle. Reginald Dickon Crossby. Tha's got a nice ring to it."

Mary nodded and smiled. She wasn't sure about the Reginald part, but she liked Dickon. She only hoped that he would get a chance to meet his namesake.

* * *

My Dear Colin,

I have news. Big news. After some persuasion on our part, Lizzie and I have got Uncle Archie to agree to using part of the house as an auxiliary hospital. I hope you're pleased by this, as we were desperate to help out in any way we can. Don't fear, Colin, for everything else will remain the same, and no-one except me will touch our Garden, though I'd like to show Lizzie one day, perhaps when you are home again. I won't until you have agreed though, because it is as much yours and Dickon's as it is mine, though I doubt Dickon will mind. Some soliders are due to arrive tomorrow, and I am both nervous and excited. Tell Dickon not to fear, my heart belongs to him and him alone. I only hope the moor air will do as much for these young men as it did for another, some years ago.

You'll be pleased to hear that your father has become more active than he has been in years. I think the idea of being of use really restores his spirit, though he still pines for you, and worries about you all the time.

I hope to God that you do get your leave, and that I will be seeing you in a matter of days. Telegram ahead for us, so that we will know when to expect you.

I miss you so very much.

Stay safe, and I'll see you soon,

Mary


	6. Paper

The telegram arrived later that day, printed and cold, as though no-one cared. Mary hadn't cried when she had read it, though her face had paled and her hands shook. It wasn't until she'd climbed into bed that night and seen the unsent letter lying on her desk that unbidden sobs had wracked her body. She'd tried to rest, but had ended up leaving her room, trailing the corridors as her feet moved without her mind's approval. Down the sweeping stairs, through the servants' hall and out through the door into the kitchen gardens. Along the walkways, gravel sharp against her bare feet. Stopping at a wall overhung with ivy, reaching blindly through to turn a key in a lock, and pushing open the door. Stepping through into the one place in all the world where she felt safe, and not feeling safe at all. Collapsing on the ground under the apple blossom tree where someone had once propped themselves, so that they could still appear rajah-like despite their weakness. Beating the ground with her fists as rage shook her, and then allowing the grass to envelop her as her rage withered away and left only emptiness and fear. Watering the parched grass with her tears, and wondering vaguely if there would be a small green patch where her face lay, the rest of the grass being yellowed from the intense summer sun. Forcing herself to stand and face her fears, as another once did. Walking back to the house as the first tendrils of sun grasped at the stone. Entering her room, blindly changing from her nightgown to a dress, packing a bag of things she'd need. Ducking under a tapestry and through a door, packing another bag of things he might need. Waiting outside the house as a carriage drew up to take her to the station, trying to smile at Lizzie as she asked again if she would like her to come with her. Refusing her friend's offer, and telling her Uncle that she would bring him home, she promised. Saying goodbye because he was leaving that very day. Getting into the carriage, boarding the train. Changing trains and wondering what she'd find when she reached her destination.


	7. Take Me Home

His face was stark white against the pillow, but he was breathing. Thick black lashes were closed tight against his cheeks, and his hands were fists. Mary couldn't help but be reminded of another time like this, in a different place, a place that now seemed so far away. A blanket was pulled up to his chest, but he was sweating, and Mary desperately wanted to pull it away from him. But she was scared. She was scared of what lay covered beneath the blankets. Or rather, what didn't. He hadn't regained consciousness since they'd told him. Then his eyelids began to flutter, and at last his eyes opened and his hand found hers and clenched it so hard Mary thought that her bones would break, and then he remembered and then both sets of tears came, hot and wet and salty, pouring out all the pain and anguish that they felt. And then they stopped, and he looked up at her and she down at him and he asked her, "Can you take me home?"

* * *

If the train had been rough, the carriage was hell. Every jolt sent fire up his spine, and he knew that his legs should be burning, but they weren't. And that was worse. He desperately wanted to look, to examine what was there and what wasn't, to see how much he had left, but he couldn't bring himself to. He knew he was lucky. The blast had killed almost everyone but him. But part of him wished he'd been granted an instant, painless death rather than this burning purgatory.

He couldn't look at her. Couldn't meet her eyes. Couldn't see her watching his face constantly, alert for any sign of pain. How laughable. As if he wasn't in pain all the time. Even his dreams weren't painless.

* * *

Mary looked at him, and felt a deep and indescribable sorrow. His once sparkling eyes were gaunt and dead. She longed for a spark of anything, even anger, but there was nothing. It was as though she were looking at a corpse, as though all the life had been sucked out of him, leaving him alone in his world of pain. The carriage stopped. He didn't seem to notice.

"Colin," she said, her voice so gentle she almost surprised herself. "We're home."

He said nothing as she stepped from the carriage and then turned back to help him. He offered no resistance as she slid her arm under his, and maneuvered him to the edge of the seat. He was obedient, and helped to lower himself into the chair with one arm, while she steadied the other. She hadn't asked for help from the driver. This wasn't his to do.

* * *

There was no-one about as she pushed him into the entrance hall. Only when she stared, dismayed, at the stairs, did she see Lizzie standing in a doorway. Silently, the other girl same to help, and they stood, one on each side of Colin, like his protectors, as they made their slow and painful way up, each step a small victory.

Only when Mary steered him into his own room, and he saw the picture of his mother, laughing, on the wall, did he break down and cry again. Violent, shaking sobs that made him bite his pillow to stop him from screaming. Mary held him, without question, until they had subsided. She clung to him, arms wrapped around his fragile frame, as though he were the boy she had known, and not the man who now had memories she could never imagine. The front of her dress was soaked with his tears and her own- bitter tears that now spoke of the horrific irony of the boy who had just found his legs having them taken cruelly again.

They fell asleep like that, side by side, two fair heads together on the pillows.

* * *

Colin awoke as he felt the sun's warm kiss upon his face. It could almost be a day back when the world was right, and he had no worries or fears to face. It wasn't. The anger was still burning deep inside him, but it had dulled somewhat, and he felt more serene than he had in months. Taking a deep breath, he dragged himself up so that he could examine his legs.

They were still there.

Oh, thank God they were still there.

Since they'd told him that he would never walk again, he'd been picturing stumps, ugly sawn off stumps. It didn't change the fact that he could feel absolutely nothing from the thigh downwards, but he was not sure that he could live without the hope that still having legs could bring. After all, there were stories about paralysed men managing to find their feet again. Miracles, people said, and where better to perform a miracle than in the secret garden?

He lay back down, a fierce hope beginning to glow. This time, his movement caused Mary to stir, and he propped himself up on his elbow to look at her. She opened her eyes and smiled hesitantly at him, as though she couldn't be happy unless he gave her permission. He found himself smiling a little back, feeling much more himself now that he was safely home.

"This is the very height of impropriety, you know," he said, raising an eyebrow and smiling devilishly. "People will talk."

Mary yawned and sat up next to him, moving close so that he could lean on her if he needed to. "I think people have more to worry about than where I sleep at night. Besides, I don't care what they think."

"Whatever would Dickon say?"

"You know perfectly well that Dickon wouldn't mind. He's not the jealous type, after all."

"No, that's you."

"I was thinking more of you, actually, but have it your way." She sighed, still so terribly weary. "What am I going to do with you, Colin Craven?"

"I don't know." His voice was quiet, wistful, as though he'd suddenly remembered everything. "I don't know, and I hate not knowing. I just keep thinking 'Why me?'"

"I know it feels like the cruelest irony-" He grimaced, and she took a deep breath before continuing. "But at least you can still see. There's a poor man, who should have arrived yesterday, who's been completely blinded by mustard gas. At least it wasn't that."

"Why would that be worse?" he asked, bitterly. "How is seeing more important than walking?"

"If you couldn't see, you could never look at the garden again," she said shortly, hoping her tone would end the conversation. It didn't. His eyes widened, grey and tortured, but still beautiful. His voice was a mask of anguish.

"I can't walk to the garden. I can't run in the garden. I can't climb a tree or dance or even open the window when it's too hot in this room." He shut his eyes, face closed off to her. The door to his soul shut and locked up like the Garden had been. "I don't see how it could be much worse."

"Well, you managed for 10 years without walking!" She snapped, suddenly furious at his defeatist attitude. "I'm sure you can manage again!"

His eyes opened again, and he looked at her, surprised and pathetically hurt by what she had said.

"Hold on," he said, suddenly realising something. "What did you mean, 'There's a man who should have arrived yesterday'?"

"Oh." She blushed faintly. "I forgot that you didn't know. I'd written to you, but I didn't send it because... Well, you know."

Colin narrowed his eyes at her. This time they were dangerous and sparkling.

"What don't I know?"

She took a deep breath, as though she was steeling herself for him to be angry, and he wondered what on earth she was going to tell him.

"We've opened up part of Misselthwaite as an auxiliary hospital for wounded soldiers," she said, as quickly as she could. He could see that she was biting her lip nervously, waiting for him to say something. He didn't.

"Colin?" She asked, anxiously. "Colin, say something."

"Oh," he said, unable to think of anything else. "Oh."

"Are you... okay?" She was hesitant, fearing the worst. The worry on her face stabbed him harder than any knife. He couldn't look anymore.

"Apart from the fact I'll never walk again?" His voice was deadly quiet, and so bitter he could almost taste it. "Yes, I'm okay."

She hit him. He saw her hand fly up to his face, and then felt the eye-watering stinging after that extended moment where you wait, in horrible anticipation of pain.

"Ow," he said, surprised. "What was that for?"

"It's not fact," she spat, her own eyes sparkling in anger. "It's just an opinion. Since when did we ever listen to opinions?"


	8. The Words That Weren't Repeated

Dickon hated trains. He hated the way the billowing smoke stung his eyes, the narrowness of the carriage that made him feel trapped, the jerking and jostling, and the screeching brakes that screamed like a wounded animal. And yet here he was, desperate to get on a train that would take him home.

His leave had been earlier than he had expected, and so he found himself journeying to Misselthwaite without so much as a letter forewarning them of his arrival. Mary had written to him about Colin- the letter had found him after he'd landed in England, actually, and Dickon was wracked with guilt. He had promised her he would keep him safe, and yet Colin was here, in England, with almost no hope of ever walking again. The world worked in mysterious ways, thought Dickon, but what it did to that poor lad was downright cruel. Dickon almost wished it had been him instead. Almost. Anyway, it was what it was, and here Dickon sat, in Leeds, waiting for the train to take him home. According to the large clock on the station wall, it was 3 o' clock, and the train should be here any minute. _Good_, thought Dickon. He'd been waiting what seemed like an age already.

"Excuse me," said a voice. "Will this next train take me to Thwaite?"

Dickon looked up and his eyes widened as he took in the man before him. A crutch propped him up, and one leg was held up off the ground, at a slightly twisted angle. His hands, weathered and calloused, were shaking a little- shell shock, Dickon supposed. A stained bandage was wrapped around his head and over one eye, and his light brown hair was limp and dusty.

"Aye, that's the one you want," replied Dickon, trying to sound as friendly as he could. He moved over on the bench, and gestured for the man to sit. He did, sighing gratefully and stretching his leg out in front of him.

"Are you going there?" asked the man tentatively, looking Dickon up and down as though trying to find a fault.

"Aye," said Dickon. "I'll be goin' up to th' Manor straight away, though."

"Oh," the man looked surprised. "So will I."

"You will?" Dickon frowned. This man didn't look like the usual person bound for Misselthwaite. "Mind me askin' why?"

He laughed. "I was going to ask you the same! I take it you haven't heard then?"

"Heard what?" asked Dickon, stomach churning uneasily.

The man laughed again. "Don't worry! Nothing bad! The old Lord decided to open part of his Manor as an auxiliary hospital." He gestured to himself. "That's why I'm going. What about you?"

"Oh," said Dickon, feeling both relieved and apprehensive. Archibald Craven, open his house to the public? That hardly seemed likely. Unless Mary had something to do with it...

"Well, I live up on Missel Moor myself, but I've known Lord Craven's son an' niece since we were young uns." Dickon was really making an effort to talk 'normally', as strangers couldn't usually understand his broad Yorkshire. "His son's wounded, so I thought I'd call in before I go home. He's always been a good friend to me." He let out a long sigh, and wished he could go back to when they were all young and carefree, running wild on the moor. "Anyway, Mary'd kill me if I didn't visit straight away."

The man smiled, and his one visible eye crinkled at the corner.

"You sweet on his niece then?"

"Aye. An' she's pretty sweet on me too."

"What does old Lord Craven think of that?"

"He was taken aback a bit, when she made it clear, but he came 'round to it. We love each other. He understands that."

"Not so many do, nowadays." The man leant back against the wall behind him. "The world's too full of hate." There was a moment of silence. "I'm Henry, by the way."

"Dickon," Dickon said, smiling. A distant chugging found Dickon's ears, and smoke was becoming visible. "Well Henry, I think this is our train."

* * *

"Dickon!" Mary shrieked, throwing herself at him. "Oh God, I've missed you so much!"

He folded her into his arms, and Mary smelt his familiar, comforting scent of soap and heather and sunlight and man. She tilted her face up to his, breathing deeply, heart pounding when he met her lips with his own. He kissed her until they were both dizzy and had to break away gasping, half for air, half for want of each other.

"Thank you," he breathed, stooping to kiss her neck.

Mary buried her face in his shoulder, fingers twined in his hair.

"For what?" she whispered.

His mouth was now on her collarbone, his stubble grazing her neck, hair tickling her cheek. Finally he stopped, eyes blazing, and looked at her.

"For waitin'."

And then she collapsed into his arms, tears stinging her eyes, and waited for him to tell her that everything was okay. She felt him sigh, not in exasperation, but pure defeat, and he held her close, her tears soaking his shirt, without complaint.

At last he spoke.

"How's he takin' it?"

His voice was soft, careful and so concerned that Mary almost wept again. Instead, she took his hand and together they began to tread the familiar path upstairs, as though they were the two children surrounded by his creatures that they once were, and not the young adults in love, hearts breaking for their beloved friend.

* * *

Colin was slumped on his sofa as they entered his room, book lying abandoned beside him, eyes trained on the clock. His head turned sharply as the door closed, and his eyes widened.

"Dickon?"

"Aye."

Colin looked away. "You shouldn't have come."

"And why's that?" Dickon was watching Colin evenly.

"You should be with your family, not fussing over a cripple." Colin's voice was bitter, and he spat the last word with a venom so fierce that Mary flinched and stepped back. Dickon didn't so much as blink.

"Tha _is_ part of my family, so here I am." He said the words with no doubt in his voice, as though they were fact and there was nothing he could do about it, even if he wanted to.

"Get in thy wheelchair Colin, we need to go."

Colin turned around again, eyebrows raised. He'd have perhaps expected to be ordered around by Mary, but not _Dickon_, who had always been sympathetic and understanding and _nice._

"I- I can't. You'll have to help me." No-one but he had any idea how much it cost him to ask for help like he was 10 years old again.

Dickon said nothing, though his eyes had softened a little, and he strode over to the sofa, lifted Colin as easily as though he were a lamb and not a fully grown man, and deposited him unceremoniously in the wheelchair.

"Let's go," he said, voice uncharacteristically harsh again.

Mary said nothing, but opened the door and held it steady for Colin to pass through.

"Where are we going?" demanded Colin, sounding almost like himself again.

Dickon smiled then, and Mary felt herself relax. She had hardly ever seen Dickon angry.

"Where does tha' think?"

* * *

It was almost exactly like the first few visits to the garden, except that Dickon had to push the wheelchair carefully down the stairs, Colin clinging on for dear life, rather than having a footman carry down the little Rajah. Every jolt caused Colin to wince, and Dickon had to force himself to carry on, steely faced, trying to ignore his friend's pain.

They were at the bottom after what seemed like an age, and went quickly through the servants' hall, which was completely empty, and out of the door into the kitchen gardens. The saw no-one as they made their way through the walkways, not even old Ben Weatherstaff, who could usually be found pottering around.

"Why isn't anyone around?" asked Colin, confused.

Dickon met Mary's eyes, and she nodded slightly.

"We asked 'em to keep out o' th' way," Dickon replied as he pushed the wheelchair along with a practiced ease.

"Why?"

Mary kept her eyes straight ahead, fixed on a point of an ivy-covered wall.

"We didn't think you'd want them around," she said, voice soft. "We didn't think you'd want them to look..." She trailed off.

"Oh."

"Not that it's anything to be ashamed of," she backtracked, trying to make him feel better. "It isn't. We just didn't think you'd want that, not straight away, anyway."

Colin said nothing, just stared ahead, trying to force away the prickling in his eyes and feelings of anguish that had suddenly reappeared.

"Right," said Mary, stopping in front of the hidden door. "I'll open it and then..."

_Dickon push him in- push him in quickly!_

The voice of the little girl echoed in her head, and she bit back a sudden sob. She shoved the door open roughly, and then pulled back the ivy for the wheelchair to pass through.

"Push him in Dickon."

She shut the door behind them with a bang, and followed the wheelchair down the stone steps.

And there they were again, exactly where they had been 8 years ago, a lass and two lads, one standing strong and tall, the other sitting, heads thrown back to look at the sky. Only this time it was almost dark, and no-one shouted out in pure joy.

_I shall get well! I shall live forever and ever and ever!_

The ghost of the words hung in the air and they waited, the night air cooling their skin and goosebumps making them shiver, but no-one said them again.


	9. A Ghost from the Past

Mary had never been busier at Misselthwaite. With the slight shortage of full-time servants and the influx of people, she had lots to do to keep entertained. She loved having the soldiers there, even if some were quiet and shaken. The doctor and matron from London had arrived, and Mary was learning things from them, picking up tidbits of information like how to change a dressing, or check for signs of infection. She'd never thought she'd be particularly interested in caring for people outside the select few that she loved more than life itself, but the work was gratifying, and she loved knowing that she made a difference.

It was a frosty afternoon in November, and Mary was making her rounds. One of the downstairs rooms had become a sitting room for the soldiers, and many of the men were gathered there, talking. The windows were glazed over, icy patterns on the glass. There was a fire roaring in the grate, casting a warm glow over everything. Others preferred to keep more to their own rooms, and so Mary would move from one to the other, re-lighting fires, offering refreshments, checking that nothing was amiss.

A young solider had arrived late last night, and Mary had not yet been told what to expect. She had been to every other room first, to give him time to rest after his long journey, but now she knocked on the door.

"Come in." The voice was quiet, gentle and so she opened the door without hesitation and stepped inside. The man was sitting up in bed, but the curtains were drawn shut and Mary couldn't see his face.

"Would you like me to open the curtains?" she asked as she moved across the room.

"Oh," said the man. "I didn't know that they weren't open."

"You didn't?" asked Mary, opening them and turning back to look at him in the light. She gasped quietly. A scar ran from his left temple to his chin, thick and pale as the sun touched it. His hair was dark and thick, and she saw that he would once have been handsome. His nose was straight, his jawline defiant, and he had cheekbones that any woman would be proud of. A bandage was wrapped around his face like a blindfold, and Mary could see that he was blind from the way that his hands were flat against the bed, fingers splayed as he tried to feel what he could not see.

As the weak sunlight reached him, his face turned toward the window and tilted, as though he were absorbing it. Mary turned back towards him and sat carefully down on the bed. She'd met men who were partially blind, or blind in one eye, but never someone who could not see at all. She supposed that this was the soldier who was due to arrive a month or so ago, but who had been delayed. His fingers reached out to her and caught on her dress, holding tightly. She was reminded of a dark stormy night, when a warm woolen wrapper brought comfort to a little boy who thought he was talking to a ghost.

Moving slowly so as not to startle him, she took his hands in her own, and placed them one on each side of her neck. Dr Spencer had told her how to do this, he had explained that a blind man would often wish to feel the face of the person addressing them, and that they could tell one face from another by touch. He did.

His hands moved slowly up her neck and traced her jawline. He cradled her face with his palms, thumbs sweeping across her closed eyelids and up onto her forehead, before exploring the elegant chignon on the back of her head. When he had finished his hands dropped back to his sides, and he frowned as though trying to commit her face to memory.

"What's your name?" he asked, as though staring at her intently.

"Mary," she replied.

"Mary," he said, trying the name out. "Mary what?"

"Mary Lennox. What's yours?" she asked, berating herself for having not found it out already.

"Adam," he said. "Adam Snow."

"Adam Snow?" She frowned. Why did it sound so familiar? "Adam Snow."

"Do I know you, Mary Lennox?" he asked, frowning himself. "I feel as if I've heard your name before."

"I don't know. Maybe someone mentioned it."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I mean before."

"Before?"

"Before England."

"In France?"

"No, before that. Have you always lived in England?"

Mary didn't know why, but she shivered. "No."

His head turned sharply towards her and he leant forward. "Where did you live before?" His voice was suddenly intense, waiting for her answer.

"India."

There was a long silence, but Mary didn't want to break it. And then, out of the blue, he began to hum the tune to a nursery rhyme. A nursery rhyme that she hadn't heard in a good 7 years. And then it hit her.

"Number 44. Adam Snow," she whispered, dreading and hoping all at the same time.

He turned his face towards her and smiled sadly. "I never thought I'd come across anyone from that boat again."

Mary shook her head slowly. "Neither did I."

They sat in silence again, until he broke it once more.

"I'm sorry, about the rhyme."

She found herself smiling."I understand why you did it now. I _was_ a contrary child." She paused, and laughed lightly. "I still can be!"

He smiled at her, and for a second his scars disappeared. "You found happiness though?"

Mary thought back over the past 8 years of her life. She swallowed, and her voice almost shook. "Yes, I found happiness. Unbelievable happiness, far more than I ever could have in India."

"Even without your parents?" He was not accusing.

She took a deep breath. "It sounds awful, but yes. I'm happier without them, because at last I have people in my life that love me unconditionally, and I was only ever a nuisance to my parents." She sighed. "Are you happy?"

He grimaced. "I was. Very happy. I lived with my grandparents until five years ago, when I met my wife. I fell in love with her straight away- it was so easy, like breathing. We married, and our first child had just been born when I was called off to war. She begged me not to go, but this was for my King and country. Besides, I couldn't bare to think that people would call me a coward." He stopped, and took a deep breath. "So I went. I saw her a few times, when I was on leave. The last time was months and months ago. She was a 7 months pregnant. They would have telegrammed her when I was wounded, but she had a toddler and a newborn, she couldn't come to me in London. Our home is in Derbyshire, so when I was ready to be discharged from the hospital they sent me here, it being the closest auxiliary to where I live. I thought she'd be here- the journey isn't nearly as far now, but she isn't. I just can't get it out of my head that she might not- might not want me now. Might not want a man who can't even see his children." His face turned away, but Mary reached out and took his hand. His fingers tightened around hers, and once again, she was reminded of that stormy night.

"She'll come," said Mary, thinking of Dickon. "If she loves you, nothing will matter except you."

* * *

Colin sat in the library in his wheelchair. It was his favourite room- the one that always felt warm and comforting. There was something about being surrounded by books- they lined the walls, floor to ceiling- that could make you feel at ease anywhere. Mary always said it was because a room full of books smelt the same no matter where you are are, but Colin wasn't so sure. She was right, he thought, about the smell always seeming to be the same, and perhaps that was comforting, but it was the books themselves that created the atmosphere. The sight of them stacked up, all clasped tantalisingly shut wherever you looked, filled him with a sense of mystery and longing. He often wondered how long it would take him to read everything in the library. Years and years. Perhaps a lifetime.

He was backed as far into a corner as he could be, the back of the wheelchair pressed against a book case. There was a lamp leaning over his shoulder, reminding him of the nosy people that tried to read your scribbles as you were writing them. He detested people that did that. It wasn't as if he were writing or reading anything untoward that he didn't want people to know about, but he always liked to read alone, where no-one could see his emotions as he journeyed with the characters. It was the feeling that it gave him when someone looked over his shoulder, like his privacy had been violated, as though he couldn't read a book or write a phrase without being judged. It was like someone had thrown open the curtains on his private thoughts, shouted his feelings for all to hear. It was wrong.

He gave his wheelchair a sharp jerk and growled low in the back of his throat. Stupid thing. It was caught on a corner of the large rug that flooded the room, and was absolutely refusing to budge. Colin looked longingly at the windowsill where he used to sit for days on end, looking out onto the moor, book in hand, hidden by the curtain. His father had spent hours looking for him sometimes, but had never thought to check there. Mary had always known where he was, but not once had she revealed his hiding place, and not once had she come to disturb him there. He wasn't even sure how she knew- sometimes she seemed to know everything. But that was before. There was no way he could get up onto the windowsill now.

The door to the library swung open and Colin froze. He felt like a naughty child- as though he'd been caught with his hand in the larder. A small, delicate figure entered the room. Elizabeth. Colin kept his breathing slow and quiet, not wanting her to see him. He lowered his eyes back to his book, but the swish of fabric made him raise his head again. He frowned.

She was dancing, spinning, emerald green dress swirling out around her in a tornado of heavy fabric. As she twirled, the lace petticoats beneath her skirt became visible- cream froth mingling with the jewel-bright green- reminding him of waves crashing onto beaches, cold and inviting and _wild_. The dress was a old one, and very out-of-style, but he thought she looked... beautiful. _Oh, shut up Colin. _Her hands were trailing the walls lovingly, caressing the spines of the books. Involuntarily, he shivered. She had stopped in the middle of the room, back to him, head tilted upwards. The sunlight from the window caught her head, and he wondered how it was that hair so dark could shine so brightly. She spun around again, faster and faster, arms extended like a ballerina, before coming to a stop facing him. He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again, feeling like an awkward teenager, realising that her eyes were closed.

She began to walk carefully towards him, arms outstretched, grasping at the air around her. Her eyelashes were dark against her cheeks, and he found himself marvelling at their extreme length. She had got quite close to him before veering off course slightly, and her right hand grazed the bookcase to his left, index finger alighting on the spine of a green, leather-bound book, looking slightly worse for wear. She stopped, hand resting on her treasure. He could see the gold title embossed onto the leather. _Jane Eyre_. Without opening her eyes, she ran her finger to the top and pulled it from its place. He shivered again, as thought her finger were tracing his spine, and not the book's. As she moved, her extended left hand dropped lightly against his cheek and he heard her intake of breath as she froze too, hand clutching the book tightly, as though for safety.

She still didn't open her eyes. Instead, she stepped back and lowered the book to the floor, gently, as though it were a beloved child. She straightened up, and he couldn't help noticing that they were almost the same height now, the fairy and the cripple. She stretched her hands in front of her, slowly, hesitantly, and stepped forward. This time her knees touched his- he could see them pressing through the layers of her dress- and her waiting hands felt only empty space as they floated on either side of his head. Taking a deep breath she brought them in towards him, fingers cupped, ready. They fitted to him perfectly, his ears safe in the space between her thumbs and forefingers, the rest of her fingers nestling against his neck. Her eyes were still closed as she spoke.

"You shouldn't lurk in corners, Colin Craven."

**Just a quick explanation incase anyone is confused about the Adam Snow bit: In the 1993 film, the orphans from India are announced by name and number when they reach England so that they can be collected by their guardians. Mary is number 43, and when Mrs Medlock isn't there to claim her, she is asked to step aside. Adam is number 44, and is collected by a woman who appears to be his grandmother. It's a very small, easily-missable part of the film, but I thought it would be nice to reunite Mary with someone from India. :)**

**Thank you so much for continuing to read this, and please leave a review if you have time- it really helps me to know if I'm going in the right direction with this story. **


	10. Fires of Grey and Green

She opened her eyes. Green, sparkling eyes, like the deepest moss. They looked at him, those eyes, as if they could see straight though his flesh and bones, straight through to his soul. He'd always laughed at descriptions of such gazes, smirked them away as artistic license, but he wasn't laughing now. She waited, expecting a reply. He could think of nothing. Nothing witty or sarcastic or even remotely interesting.

"I like corners," was the best that he could do.

"Hmm." She stepped back, regarding him, eyeing his chosen spot before sweeping the rest of the room with her emerald gaze. "I prefer windowsills," she said.

His stomach turned. She had read his mind. He didn't feel sick, he didn't know how he felt. Not nervous or sad or uneasy, just... bare, like there was nothing to hide behind. Because all his life, Colin Craven had hidden. He'd hidden locked in his room for 10 years, he'd hidden in the garden after that. He'd hidden his past from his fellow pupils and later his fellow students with partially-true stories of his remote home, and then he'd hidden his true feelings behind a façade of sharp wit, intellect and an often bitter humour. He'd never been truly himself with anyone other than Mary and Dickon. Even his own father wasn't always kept in the know, although he saw deeper into his son than Colin realised. And yet here was this tiny, overlook-able woman, this minuscule fairy, smashing down every careful brick he'd ever laid in his high wall of protection. With one look. Everything. Gone.

Colin had no idea what to say. He settled for nothing.

Elizabeth frowned, and looked almost disappointed. "I didn't take you for the silent type." Her tone was almost accusing, as though he had somehow offended her.

He blinked once or twice, but at last he found his voice. "I'm not, usually." His voice was hoarse, his throat inexplicably dry. He swallowed hastily.

"Oh?" Her eyebrow flicked upwards, and her eyes glowed like a cat's. "Why the change today?"

"There's been a lot of change recently." His answer was short, voice harsh. Something about her put him on the defensive.

She nodded, and her voice was surprisingly soft. "I know."

He gritted his teeth, angry at being interrupted when he'd been happy alone. "No, you don't."

She ignored this, choosing not to challenge him. Her eyes travelled down to his lap, to the book that was resting there.

"What are you reading?" Her tone was light, inviting, as though she were genuinely interested.

He looked down at the book in his lap and blushed faintly.

"Wuthering Heights."

Her eyebrow quirked up again. "Hmm, a Brontë fan?" She smiled impishly at him. He shrugged, hoping to hide his embarrassment.

"Not really. It's all I could reach." His voice was deadpan and he was expecting sympathy, but she laughed at him, looking pointedly around the rest of the room.

"Everything else on the bottom two shelves was available, but you still chose Wuthering Heights?" She shook her head, almost mockingly. "Too much of a coincidence to be coincidental." She looked at him again, tilting her head slightly sideways.

"Three shelves," he corrected, meeting her gaze. "You aren't a Brontë fan then?" He was hoping for something to use against her.

"Of course I am." She was matter of fact, as if no-one could possibly dislike anything Brontë. "Jane Eyre's my favourite, which is good, as..." She glanced down at the book on the floor next to her, "I just picked it." She paused to survey him, before flashing her impish grin again. "A coincidence, of course."

When he said nothing, she frowned at him and picked up the book again, cradling it to her chest.

"Well, don't let me keep you from Cathy."

She sashayed away, skirts swirling, turning back once to smile knowingly. Colin's head followed her and he watched as she settled herself on the windowsill- his favourite spot- and drew the curtain, becoming invisible.

He frowned, shook his head, and was about to push himself away when something made him ask: "Why Jane Eyre?"

He wasn't sure that she would answer him, but after a short silence Elizabeth pulled back the curtain again. He could see her silhouette, head resting against the glass, feet curled beneath her.

"I like Mr. Rochester," she said, smiling and twisting around to look at him.

"Despite the mad wife?" Colin asked.

Elizabeth laughed. "I think people blame him too much for that. He was tricked."

Colin frowned at her. "So, it's alright to lock people in rooms, provided you have a good reason?" There was a hint of anger to his voice.

"No, but he paid for it in the end though, didn't he?" Elizabeth answered, reasonably.

"Not really," said Colin, realising too late that he sounded like a sulky child.

She jumped lightly from the window seat and came over to stand facing him as she had before. "Why are you on Bertha's side?"

He tried to backtrack, worried that he'd said too much. "I just think that spending years locked in a room is enough to drive _anyone_ mad."

Lizzie cocked her head to one side and narrowed her eyes.

"Bertha was mad _before _she was locked in the attic. Granted, it probably didn't _help_, but..." She trailed off, seeing the furious look on his face.

"No, it certainly wouldn't have helped!" he spat, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I don't think that spending your life in one room would particularly 'help' anyone! Besides," Colin added, anger flaring up his stomach, "Jane's an idiot."

Now it was Lizzie's turn to flare up. "Jane is not an idiot! What has that got to do with anything?"

"If she wasn't an idiot, she would have gone with St. John. That would have been the sensible thing to do." Colin's nails were digging into his palms and he could taste blood where he'd bitten the inside of his cheek.

"So she's an idiot because she _didn't_ go off with a man she didn't love?" Lizzie's eyes had become slits and her fists were clenched at her sides. "And why would that be, oh Great One?"

"Because no-one marries for love! She went back and spent the rest of her life with a cripple!"

Lizzie's face was now burning and her eyes were sparkling like fire. "I don't see how you of all people can hate Edward Rochester because he was crippled!"

It was like she'd slapped him. His whole face drained of colour but his eyes were still incredibly dangerous.

There was a long silence, where they both stared, eyes shining grey and green, shocked at each other. Finally Colin spoke.

"I'm right," he said, voice very low. "Jane _is_ stupid. No-one could in their right minds could love a cripple."

Lizzie gasped and turned, fleeing back to the windowsill and pulling the curtain behind her. Colin thought he heard a sob, but he was too angry to care and began to wrestle with the wheelchair again. It was still stuck fast. He gritted his teeth and continued to yank it, only succeeding in becoming more tangled than ever.

"Some help would be nice!" He hissed, furious with himself for having to ask for help when she should be apologizing to him. Strangely, he heard her laugh mockingly from behind the curtain.

"You don't need my help." Her voice was muffled, but that didn't prevent the venom from being audible.

He made an angry noise in his throat and gave the wheelchair one last violent yank. Surprisingly, it came free from the rug and rolled easily forwards. As he pushed himself away, Colin turned back once to glare furiously at the curtain, and caught sight of a green eye watching him from between the gap. He was struck with the thought that perhaps those eyes had never been closed at all.

* * *

_Oh well done, Elizabeth. You insensitive idiot!_ She sighed and pressed the palms of her hands to her forehead. Why did she end up alienating everyone she spoke to?

But why had he reacted so badly when she'd defended Mr. Rochester? He'd _asked_, for goodness sake, and then had bitten her head off when she explained! _He deserved it, _she thought, and then shook her head and angrily wiped a tear from her cheek. _No, he didn't. No-one deserved that. Why did she always have to put her foot in it? _She always knew exactly how to hurt a person most, exactly how to shoot the arrow through the armour chink. And she'd definitely done it then. His face flashed up before her eyes. _Oh God, what have I done? _She really did feel very sorry for him, but he seemed to be able to make her forget that he was in a wheelchair- his own tongue was so bloody sharp- and so she'd hit out with whatever she had. _He'll probably never talk to you again. _

His own evident frustration about the wheelchair and the rug had amused her, however. If he'd just stopped and looked, instead of shoving it about all over the place, he'd have seen how to get himself out. _Honestly_. She'd enjoyed watching him get wound up and then asking for help against his better judgement. He was fiercely independent, that much was clear, and Lizzie knew that she wouldn't cope nearly as well as he did. Before, she'd have said that he seemed to have accepted everything, but now she wasn't so sure. Nobody could fake that look.

She frowned to herself. There really was something very mysterious about that boy... Man? She felt it hard to think of him as a man when he looked so vulnerable, but he was so closed off from everything around him. She knew that he was tall, with wiry muscles beneath his slim frame. When she'd helped Mary drag him up the stairs before slipping silently away, she'd felt those muscles, tense and coiled beneath the surface. It was such a waste, she thought, that all these young men were now more likely to be burdens than benefits to their families. Some of them would make full recoveries, but others, so young, would never be able to work again. She sighed. The world was a cruel mistress.

The look flashed up again. She'd have to apologise. She hated apologising.


	11. We Munnot Give Up Hope

**Please bear with me at the moment, I'm entering a very busy period of my life, and I realistically will only get the chance to write/upload chapters at the weekend. I will keep trying to be as regular as possible, and thank you very much for continuing to read this story. :) **

Dickon was now home for good. Finally, after years of lurking terror and anticipation, the war was over. Mary couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. She wanted to scream in joy, because now her loved ones were finally safe, but in the back of her mind were all the poor men who would never make it back. Misselthwaite seemed hollow, despite it being fairly crowded with soldiers, without the familiar faces of John, the first footman, Alfred, the gardener's lad, and, almost worst of all, Charlie, the little boot boy who'd lied about his age to go and find glory. There were more, Mary knew, but those three men were the ones she had known best. John had always been the one to carry Colin around when they were 10, good-natured and surprisingly patient considering the irrational temper of the young Rajah. Mary had liked him, found his presence comforting in some way.

Alfred had been Ben Weatherstaff's young apprentice, and, although Ben had been gruff, she knew that the old man had cared deeply about him. She hadn't seen Ben recently, and she wondered how he was taking the loss. Alfred had been the only other gardener that they'd let help tend the garden once old Ben had become too stiff with his rheumatism to really do any work. Ben had sat on the bench like a Lord himself, ordering around the young lad who'd so looked up to him.

And Charlie, the boot boy, had been at Misselthwate for almost three years. Mary had taken a special shine to him when she'd found him wandering an upstairs corridor on his first day. He'd looked so lost, this little scrap of a lad with his thatch of ginger hair, that Mary had completely forgotten to scold him for venturing upstairs, and had instead escorted him back down and asked Cook to give him some toast and jam. He had, he said, wanted to see what it was like upstairs. His mother, who'd worked at Misselthwaite when "th Missus was 'ere" as a chambermaid, had told him stories of the grandeur of "upstairs", and so Charlie had snuck up to take a peek himself. He'd ended up getting himself rather lost, and had been "wanderin' 'round for hours!" before Mary had found him. He'd reminded her of one of Dickon's lost lambs, scrawny and hungry but a tough little thing.

Mary was pacing up and down in the hallway as she thought all of this, eyes darting to the grandfather clock impatiently. 6 o' clock, he'd said. It was now 6.05 and there was no sign of him. It wasn't like Dickon to be late. A soft dragging sound was coming from behind her. Without turning around, she knew that it was Colin, wheelchair making steady progress over the carpeted corridor, before coasting along when it hit the polished parquet flooring of the hallway. He came to a stop beside her. She looked down at him, expecting him to say something. He didn't.

"So, it's over."

He nodded, eyes fixed ahead.

"Sometimes I thought it would never end." Her eyes watched the seconds tick away, restlessly.

He nodded again.

"Are you listening to me?"

He nodded once more and she glared at the top of him head.

"Well, are you going to say anything back? At the moment, I might as well be talking to a brick wall." She huffed and folded her arms.

"Sorry." His voice was lifeless.

She frowned at him.

"Honestly, Colin!"

He didn't look up, didn't even nod this time.

She grabbed the back of his wheelchair and dragged him, helpless, towards the stairs.

"What are you doing?!"

She didn't answer, just positioned him beside the steps and then sat on the second one up herself, so that she was at eye level with him.

"Better?" she asked, forcing him to look her in the eye.

He said nothing.

"For God's sake, Colin! What is the matter with you?"

This time she got a reaction- a bitter laugh and a pointed look downwards.

"I'm not sure, Mary. Perhaps you could take a guess?" His tone was sarcastic and cut-off, as though he _were_ behind a wall.

She snorted. "Oh, stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself!"

He ordained to look at her, a sneer on his face.

"Language, cousin, there are people about."

"Shut up." She could feel her temper rising, blood beginning to boil.

"I haven't said anything."

She took a deep breath before she answered. It wouldn't do to get wound up now. "That's precisely the problem."

He raised an eyebrow, giving her his most withering look.

"Really? I was under the impression that the problem was that I currently can't walk."

"Mmm," she replied, thinking about his choice of words. "Currently."

His head whipped around sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Feigning innocence, she widened her eyes. "Nothing- I was just repeating what you said."

He turned back again, eyes fixed on the wall.

"What is wrong with you today?" she asked, voice softening. "And nothing sarcastic or bitter, please- I am very much aware of your inability to walk, thank you."

His voice had no trace of anything in when he said, "I don't know."

"Really?"

He was silent for a minute.

"Elizabeth was in the library."

Mary raised an eyebrow. What possibly could have happened with Lizzie to bring on such a change in temper?

"Go on."

He took a deep breath. "She didn't really do anything wrong, I suppose. It was my fault."

"What did you do?" asked Mary, half dreading the answer. The last thing she needed was to be caught between her cousin and her best friend.

"I told her that Jane Eyre was stupid."

"Aah." Mary shook her head. "You shouldn't have done that. It's her favourite."

"I know. She told me."

"Did she tell you before or after you insulted her?"

"Before."

Mary paused and looked her cousin in the eye. "And she hurt you back?"

"Yes."

She sighed and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "So now you know how you make people feel when you refuse to listen to their opinions."

He laughed bitterly. "I thought we didn't listen to opinions."

"Sometimes we do. When it's the people we care about."

"I don't care about her!" His eyes were flashing, but there was something behind that...

"Well you're hurt quite badly, so you must have cared."

Colin sighed and rested his chin on his hand. "When did you get so wise?"

"When I thought I'd lost you."

"Oh."

There was silence, and then Mary spoke.

"Maybe I'm not the only person who can handle the one and only Colin Craven. Have you finally met your match?"

She was expecting a quick put-down of that idea, but instead Colin turned slowly back to look at her, and he seemed both confused and slightly terrified.

His answer was slow and almost disbelieving. "I think I might have."

At that moment there was a quick knocking on the door. Mary felt a grin spreading across her face, but she turned back to Colin and gave him what she hoped was a stern look.

"Be nice. He's worried about you."

Colin gave her a crooked smile- a little halfhearted but Mary noted that it did at least reach his eyes.

"Don't worry, I'll be the very model of decorum."

She poked him lightly on the arm, allowing herself to break into a grin again.

"You'd better be."

* * *

Dickon took a deep breath and knocked quickly on the door, hoping that it was loud enough for someone inside to hear. He was uncharacteristically nervous, his usual calm interrupted by the fluttering in the pit of his stomach. His hand went to his pocket- yes, it was still there. He had been saving for so ridiculously long, he only hoped it hadn't been for nothing. He shifted from foot to foot, anxiously patting down his hair. Then, after what seemed like a lifetime, the door swung heavily open and a bundle of lavender silk and blonde hair flung itself at him.

After the initial bone-crushing embrace had subsided somewhat, Dickon held Mary at arms length and surveyed her. His mouth broke into its wide, curly smile as he took in her sheer beauty; the piercing hazel eyes which reminded him of a particularly watchful doe; her graceful, willowy frame, which was by no means gangly; the blonde hair which was a shade or so darker than Colin's, but was no less like spun gold in the sunshine; the dainty, quick hands which were deceptively pristine; the small, full mouth which could flatten with anger or smile like no other. Oh yes, this was the lass he loved.

Right now, the mouth was pulled downwards slightly in displeasure, and the hazel eyes were reproachful.

"Tha said tha would be 'ere at 6. 'Tis nearly ha' past now!" The tone was accusing. "Where were thee?"

Her tongue flowed easily over the words, and he chuckled as he remembered a ten-year-old little wench trying to make the them come out right.

"I'm only a bi' late," he said, fixing her with his innocent stare. "Tis not ha' past at all."

"I said nearly, not that it actually was," she snapped, though her hand held his tightly. He grinned again. She always reverted to the Queen's English when she was annoyed.

"Sorry Miss," he said, bowing to her. "Might I be allowed in now, 'tis awful cold out here."

She snorted, and lead him through the doorway.

Dickon never could quite get used to the sheer size of the place. He reckoned that he could fit his Mother's cottage in here 6 times over, and that was just in the entrance hall.

His gaze swept the cavernous space until it alighted on a figure in a wheelchair, positioned to one side of the broad sweeping staircase.

Dickon's face broke into a grin again, and he strode forwards and sat down lightly on the second stair, so that he was relatively level with Colin.

"Dickon," Colin was grinning at him. Dickon breathed a sigh of relief, so glad to see his friend apparently happy again.

"What took thee so long? Thy lass was practically tearin' her hair out!"

"Eh," Dickon said, smiling happily at the thought of Mary wanting him so badly. "Mother was fussin'. She only hasn't seen me for a couple o' days- I went to see 'er before goin' back down to London. I was jes' goin' to get on th' train from there when a lad comes runnin' up sayin' as how th' War's over and we don' 'ave to fight anymore. My God," he said, shaking his head, "I've never been so glad to 'ear somethin' in all m'life!"

Mary had settled herself on the floor in front of the stairs so that the three of them formed a little triangle. She was cross-legged and her skirts were spread out around her.

"Aye," she said. "It was a graidley day for us all."

Dickon nodded. "And how's things 'ere? How're th' troops keepin' up?" He glanced at Colin as he said this, and his friend's voice seemed falsely bright as he answered.

"Eh, we're doin' alright. Mary's been keepin' busy- tha knows 'ow she likes to always be doin' somethin'."

"And how're thee doin', Colin?" asked Dickon quietly, searching his friend's face.

"Better," answered Colin, smiling sadly. "But I jes' keep thinkin' 'Why me?'"

"Aah," Dickon sighed heavily. "Tha' canna' think o' it tha' way. I' wasn't jes' thee. Look around thee. I' wasn't' jes' thee." Dickon shook his head, and his heart was heavy with loss. "How many folks did Misselthwaite lose?" he asked, half dreading the answer.

It was Mary who replied.

"Quite a lot," she said, softly. "I only knew three well- John, Alfred and Charlie- but Mrs Medlock says we've lost more. I know there were some stable boys, the third footman..." she trailed off, looking as though she were going to cry.

Dickon replayed her answer in his head.

"Charlie?" he asked, frowning. "Charlie West? That young-un?"

Mary nodded miserably.

"Bu' 'e could only ha' been 15, a' th' most!"

"He ran off," said Mary listlessly. "Lied about his age."

Dickon shook his head again and scuffed the floor with his boot. "Bloody stupid lads, thinkin' war is a game. Bloody stupid."

There was a long silence, during which none of the three friends moved a muscle. To Dickon's surprise, Colin broke the silence.

"Art thou stayin' 'ere, Dickon?"

"Umm," Dickon looked up. "I was hopin' to, if tha's got space t' spare."

Colin smiled then, a genuine smile. "O' course we've got space. A hundred rooms, remember?"

Dickon still looked a little uncomfortable. "Aye, I know that, but I thought th' house might be full, what with th' soldiers stayin' an' everythin'."

Colin shook his head. "They're mainly on th' ground floor an' in th' East wing. There's bedrooms near Mary that still 'ave no-one in 'em." He looked slyly at the two of them. "I'm sure tha' wouldna' mind, eh Dickon?"

Dickon saw Mary's foot flash out as she kicked her cousin in the shin.

"Ow!" Colin exclaimed, and then his eyes widened in surprise. Mary's eyes had flown upwards at the outburst, but it was Dickon who dared to bring up what they were all thinking, after a long pause.

"Did tha' feel that?"

Colin nodded slowly. "Aye, I think so."

The three were quiet again, wondering what it meant. Dickon was watching Mary carefully- he had an inkling as to what she was going to do next. Mary glanced at him and their eyes met. Dickon knew exactly what Mary wanted him to do. Cause a distraction. He cleared his throat and looked around the hall, as though seeing it for the first time.

"Hey, Colin, has that there picture always been there?" He pointed, and as Colin's head tilted back to look, Mary's foot flashed out again.

"Ow!" Colin exclaimed again. "What have I done now?!"

Dickon looked across at Mary. Her eyes had lit up and a smile was lingering on her lips.

"I wanted to see if tha' could still feel it if tha' wasn't lookin'at my foot and expectin' to feel somethin'," she said. "And tha' did, didn't tha'? It wasn't a trick o' th' mind?"

"Aye," said Colin, trying to sound reproachful. "I definitely did."

"Well then," said Dickon, smiling his wide smile. "We munnot give up hope yet."

And Colin's face began to glow.


	12. Mountains and Molehills

The plan was formulated that night, when the three of them were huddled in Colin's room. There was a fire crackling away, and the curtains were drawn against the chill of the wind. Dickon and Mary were sitting side by side on the hearth rug, and Colin had asked Dickon to help him to the sofa, so that he didn't have to '_sit in that bloody infernal wheelchair a moment longer_'. He was stretched out along the full length, though he could no longer fit his whole body on like he could when he was younger, and so he sat up slightly at one end, and his feet dangled over the other. None-the-less, he looked more comfortable that he did hunched in his chair, and so Mary and Dickon were happy to sit on the floor.

The three were just about to commence their discussion of Colin's newfound feeling in his legs, when there was a quiet tap at the door and in stepped Elizabeth, looking slightly uncomfortable at intruding.

"Mary?" she called as she moved daintily across the room. "Mrs Medlock asked me to tell you that your Uncle is leaving London tomorrow, so he should be back soon." She paused, and a smile crept onto her face. "Would you mind if I join you all?" she asked.

Mary was sure that Dickon wouldn't mind, but she said nothing, not wanting to agree if Colin didn't want Lizzie to know, especially after their clash earlier. To her surprise, it was Colin who answered her.

"Of course not," he said, giving her a small nod.

Dickon smiled widely at Lizzie and she grinned back.

"Dickon, I presume?" She held out her hand and he shook it firmly. "I'm Elizabeth, a friend of Mary's."

"Pleased t' meet thee, Miss."

"Oh, call me Lizzie, please. Everyone else does."

Mary watched closely as Lizzie surveyed the room, glancing at the various available armchairs. A wicked little smile appeared on her friend's face, and she sauntered confidently over to the sofa.

"Move over, Colin," she said.

Colin, who had been watching the dancing fire, glanced up, startled, and then looked pointedly at the empty armchairs.

Lizzie snorted in response, grabbed Colin's ankles and pushed him over so that he was sitting upright and there was now enough room for her to sit next to him.

Mary watched this with a raised eyebrow, and looked across at Dickon. He was trying very hard to banish a grin, and was failing miserably. Colin was glowering.

"I sit like this all day," he said, glaring at her. "I was enjoying having my feet up."

"Oh, stop complaining," said Lizzie sternly, though Mary could see that she was enjoying the scene. "You can still have your feet up if it means that much to you."

Colin had opened his mouth to complain again, when Lizzie promptly leant forward and gently pulled his legs towards her so that he was sitting back against the cushions with his calves resting across her lap. "There," she said, a hint of smugness in her voice. "Now we're both happy."

Mary stared intently at her cousin. She had never seen how he coped in such situations before, and was thoroughly enjoying his discomfort. She was sure that his cheeks were more flushed than they had been a little while ago, and she noted that he wasn't complaining about being half draped in Lizzie's lap. She'd never seen Lizzie flirt like this before, and hadn't even considered the possibility that her friend might be attracted to her cousin! It was all rather interesting to observe.

"So," said Lizzie, seeming rather pleased with herself. "What are we discussing?"

"Well," began Mary, hoping that Colin truly didn't mind her friend's presence. "Colin thinks he might be getting some feeling back in his legs."

Lizzie turned her head to look at Colin, eyebrows raised in interest. "And how did you find that out?" she asked, a sparkle in her eye that suggested she somehow already knew.

"Mary kicked me," said Colin, turning to shoot a glare at his cousin. "Twice."

"And you're sure it wasn't because you still _expected_ to feel something?" asked Lizzie, all business.

"Yes," he answered quickly, as though he'd given the question a great deal of thought.

There was a pause.

"And what are you going to do about it?"

Colin turned back to look at her, his eyes narrowed. "What do you suggest I do about it?" His voice was a little cold.

Lizzie was unperturbed. "Well, surely you're going to tell a Doctor-"

"No!" The outburst from Colin made them all turn to look at him.

"Why ever not?" she asked, incredulously.

It was Dickon who answered, his voice low but firm.

"We'd rather do somethin' about it ourselves," he said, looking at Colin, who had turned very pale.

Lizzie shrugged her shoulders, and Mary saw that her friend had decided not to push the subject.

"Could you help us, Liz?"

Lizzie was silent for a minute, deep in thought. "I think so," she said at last. "There was a case like this in London, and I'm sure I remember what the Doctor told the patient to do."

Colin looked up again. "Did you work in a hospital then?"

Lizzie nodded. "I wasn't a nurse or anything, I just changed sheets and dressings and read to the men and kept them company. It was only for a little while- my mother didn't approve." She sighed heavily. "It was all '_You should be finding a husband, Elizabeth, not messing around with disfigured men_!'"

Colin's jaw clenched at that, Mary saw. She thought that Lizzie noticed too.

"Anyway, she's not here now, so what can she do?" Lizzie sat back, her arms crossed defiantly in front of her. Her elbows were just brushing Colin's shins.

"So," said Mary, half wishing she could curl up right next to Dickon and fall asleep with her head in his lap. "What's the plan?"

* * *

The four of them fell asleep in Colin's room, much to Mrs Medlock's surprise when she bustled in in the morning to open the curtains and deposit a breakfast tray on a bedside table. Master Colin lay flat across one half of his bed, arm flung out to one side, hand dangling. Miss Mary lay curled in a neat ball on the other side, facing her cousin. She was propped up in such a way that Mrs Medlock was sure she'd been watching over Colin as he slept. Dickon was sprawled on the hearth rug, a sofa cushion for a pillow. He always had been very at home in the Manor, she thought, slightly disapprovingly. But then, as a gardener had once told her, Dickon would be at home in Buckingham Palace, or at the bottom of a coal mine. It wasn't impudence, either! Mrs Medlock was surprised to see Miss Templeton there too- her tiny frame fitting comfortably on the sofa- covered by a blanket from a drawer beneath the wardrobe.

She shook her head as she crept quietly from the room. In other houses this sort of thing would be considered the height of impropriety, but Misselthwaite never had been your average house, and as all four were still fully clothed, she could see nothing particularly wrong with it. She swept back downstairs to give the order for three more breakfasts. When they were ready she had a couple of maids carry them up and leave them quietly outside the bedroom door.

* * *

Colin awoke, and had a few blissful minutes before be remembered that he had lost the use of his legs. However, today, instead of it barreling into him like a train, it was just in the back of his mind. He lie still and actually felt more relaxed than he had done for weeks. Dragging himself upright, he smiled at Mary's bundled form beside him. Her hair was tangled and spread out around her- no doubt she'd complain about it later.

There was a stirring from the sofa at the bottom of the bed, and Colin looked up as Elizabeth emerged. Her dress was crumpled, but she seemed otherwise relatively unruffled, despite the imprint of the cushion texture covering one of her cheeks. She looked over and smiled when she saw him awake.

"Is that for you?" she asked by way of a greeting, nodding at the breakfast tray.

Colin smirked at her. "Aye."

She scowled playfully at him, and began to pad towards the bed, but stopped halfway across the room, sniffing. She turned back towards the bedroom door. "Unless I'm much mistaken..." She opened the door quietly, bent down and then came back into the room. "Aaah, I do love it here!" She exclaimed, before setting another breakfast tray down. She looked back at him. "Do you want to eat there, or on the sofa?"

Colin glanced down at himself. "I'd rather use the sofa," he said. "Contrary to popular belief, breakfast in bed isn't all that nice, on account of the crumbs."

She snorted quietly in response, and came over to the bedside.

"Would you like some help?"

"I don't think you'll be able to carry me."

"I wasn't suggesting that I would."

"Well, how am I going to get over there then? Dickon's still asleep."

Elizabeth surveyed the room, thinking. She glanced upwards, and Colin wondered what on earth the ceiling had to do with anything.

"How strong are these drapes?" she asked, looking up at the curtains surrounding the bed, uncertainly.

"Quite strong. I used to swing on them when I was bored." He didn't add: _because I was pretending to be an invalid and couldn't go running around the house like Mary used to, because then no-one would have believed me at all! _Thankfully, Mary had solved the problem of rainy days when she'd suggested that they go to the unused parts of the house, so that he could run around without anyone seeing.

Elizabeth looked at him strangely. "You must've been very bored."

It was Colin's turn to snort. "You have no idea."

She smiled. "Well if you sit with your legs hanging off the side of the bed, you can lower yourself to the floor with them," she said, as though it were the most natural thing to do in the world.

"Are you sure?" asked Colin, looking up at the drapes doubtfully.

"You said they were strong!"

"Mmm."

"Oh, just do it!" she exclaimed. "After all, it's not very far if you fall."

Colin rolled his eyes, feeling more and more like his old self. "Thanks for the reassurance."

"Don't worry, I'll catch you if you do fall." She stepped back and surveyed him, a one-sided smile on her face.

"And be squashed flat in the process," Colin pointed out.

"Oh," Elizabeth looked back towards the sofa. "Wait a moment." She went, and came back a few seconds later with a large pile of cushions and a blanket. She arranged them on the floor beside the bed. "There. Now if you fall, at least it will be a soft landing."

Colin shrugged his shoulders, and then scooted slowly to the side of the bed. His legs were trailing pathetically behind him, and when he got to the edge he had to twist himself round so that they could dangle from the bed. To his surprise, Lizzie was already there, and she took a firm grasp of his ankles so that she could lower his legs gently over the side. He thought he could feel her touch slightly, but he wasn't sure if he was imagining it. The thought of her skin touching his made his cheeks begin to burn. If Lizzie noticed, she didn't mention it.

"Right, now hold onto the drapes, and lower yourself down. I'll hold onto your ankles so that you don't sit on them." She smiled reassuringly.

Colin took hold of the drapes on either side of him, grateful that his arms were strong from all the wheelchair pushing he'd done. His muscles were taut and straining as he edged over the bed and inched his hands down the drape. _Stupid bed_, he thought. _Why did it have to be so high up?_

"You're almost there," said Elizabeth, as she crouched down close to the floor to remain level with him. There were a few more seconds before he landed on the cushion pile with a huff.

"Done!" she said, grinning.

Colin sighed with relief. He had never thought that such a seemingly simple task could become such an obstacle once again.

He looked up at Lizzie, who had lowered his legs gently to the floor and was looking at him with a strange glowing pride. Suddenly, she dropped to the floor beside him, biting her lip.

"I'm really sorry about what I said yesterday."

Colin looked across at her, grey eyes surprisingly soft. "It doesn't matter."

She leant forwards, palms flat against the floor. Her eyes were troubled, brow furrowed. "It does! I should never have lost my temper. You just..."

"Acted like a Rajah?"

"A Rajah?"

"You know, an Indian Prince. Mary always said I reminded her of one. Selfish and proud and demanding. I thought it was a compliment when I was younger." He laughed quietly.

"Well, I suppose so. A Rajah." She gave him one last searching look before standing up again and looking over at the sofa, which still seemed miles away.

"You'd better hold on, and I'll pull you over to the sofa."

Colin raised an eyebrow at her. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, of course! Are you sitting on the blanket?"

He nodded.

"Right, so hold on, and tell me if I'm going to walk into anything."

She took hold of the end of the blanket and leaned back, bracing her weight against his. The blanket began to slide, and Colin peered over her shoulder as they made their slow progress across the room.

"You need to go to your right a bit," he said. "Oh no, not that far right- you're going to crash into the table! That's it... A bit further... We're here."

Lizzie straightened up, her cheeks a little bit red, and smiled at him.

"How was that?" she asked.

Colin grinned at her despite himself. "Not as undignified as I expected."

She laughed. "You can't afford to worry about dignity. This'll be the undignified bit."

She grabbed his arms and began to pull him up, face scrunched with the effort. She didn't get very far, however, and they both collapsed back on the floor, glaring up at the mountain of a sofa.

"I know we shouldn't make a mountain out of a molehill, but that really is a monstrous sofa!"

"Should we just wake Dickon up?" asked Colin, glancing doubtfully over at the sprawled shape on the carpet.

"I don't know how they both haven't woken up already," said Elizabeth, "considering all the noise that we've been making. Besides, you don't want to give up now, do you?"

Colin shrugged.

"Just put your arms back onto the sofa, and pull yourself up. Granted, it is quite undignified, but at least it's only me who'll see. There's no way that I can get you up there."

Colin looked uncomfortable. He knew that he could drag himself onto the sofa, but he didn't particularly want to do it with an audience. Lizzie seemed to sense this.

"Would you like me to look away?"

Colin nodded, and she turned her back to him. There was a shuffling and a groan and then a sigh of relief. Lizzie turned back again.

"Was that sufficiently undignified?"

Colin laughed, feeling oddly proud of his little achievement. "I think it was worth it."

At that moment, Mary sat up and looked across to where Colin and Lizzie were. She caught Lizzie's eye and said in a suitably incredulous voice:

"Colin? How on _earth_ did you get over there?"


	13. Developments

**As usual, any comments/reviews are much appreciated. Thank you! **

The plan was launched into action that day. Mary, Lizzie and Dickon had sped off to get washed and dressed after their impromptu sleepover, and they met back in Colin's room afterwards. They had initially wanted to go to the garden in the early hours of the morning, but considering they hadn't stopped talking until gone midnight, they settled for evening, when the gardens would be empty.

Lizzie hadn't been told the true meaning of the garden and how it had helped to make Colin well again, but she could tell from the way that the others spoke about it that it was almost sacred to them, and so she was flattered that they would be willing to share it with her. She was curious as to why Colin wanted to try to build up the strength in his legs outside rather than inside, but his eyes had blazed so brightly when Mary and Dickon had suggested the garden that Lizzie hadn't even tried to question it. She still hadn't figured out Colin Craven, but she felt as though cracks were beginning to show in his armour, and that she might finally be getting to know the real him.

At twilight, they made their careful way outside via the door near the servants' hall, knowing that it would be mainly empty. Lizzie felt her heart beating quickly, though she wasn't sure why. She was strangely nervous, considering half of this plan had been her idea, mainly because she could remember the exercises that Colin should begin to do. Part of her could not understand the secrecy around the whole project- why didn't they just tell a doctor, who could then advise them? Colin's dismissal of that idea was so fierce, there had to be a reason behind it. But what? Could she ask Mary? She wasn't sure. Mary was intensely protective of her cousin, despite their frequent clashing. He exasperated her, but there was something about their relationship that made her feel as though she would be intruding if she asked Mary, and she doubted her friend would tell her if Colin didn't want her to. Who then? Dickon? Maybe. Lizzie had taken a shine to the quiet country lad, who clearly so adored Mary. She wished someone would look at her like that! But would Dickon divulge the secret? She could just ask, she supposed, or confront Colin himself. Hmm, perhaps that was the way to go about it.

"Where is this garden, then?" asked Lizzie, squinting at the ivy covered wall in the half-light. "I can't see a door."

"Not yet," said Mary, as she removed a heavy iron key from her pocket. Lizzie watched as her friend stepped confidently up to a part of the wall that looked no different from any other, and reached into the ivy with the key. There was a practiced twist of her wrist, and then Mary pulled back the ivy drape and beckoned to Dickon.

"Wheel him in, Dickon," she said, and Dickon pushed in the wheelchair as though he'd been doing it all his life.

"Come on, Lizzie," Mary whispered, glancing around.

Lizzie stepped up close to the wall and saw a little door leading into a garden hidden behind. She stepped through quickly and walked a few paces before stopping and gazing around her. It was magnificent.

The walls were high and safe, every inch of them covered in trailing alpines with sweet smelling leaves and tiny winter flowers. Some stone steps lead downwards, slippery with frost. There was a large, but sadly bare, apple blossom in the centre of this part of the garden, with a carpet of long grass and winter poppies spreading out around it, like a miniature meadow. Little paths lead around the space, which seemed to go on forever. She began to follow one, stopping to dip her fingers in a cold, clear pond that reflected the pinkish sky. As she walked, she brushed past countless vines, and she could imagine the sweet scent of the roses that would cling to her in the summer, from where they would hang from everything that they could reach. When she reached a swing, hanging from another vine-covered tree, she sat down on it, toes digging into the ground to push her off. A robin was singing from somewhere nearby, and everything was so still and perfect. Now she understood why it had to be here, where she felt as safe as if the garden were a nest. Now she understood.

* * *

Colin wheeled himself towards the apple blossom, stopping underneath it. The bare canopy stretched over his head, branches reaching out towards the sky. Mary followed him silently and laid down blankets beneath the tree, along with a picnic basket. Exactly like old times, he thought. Her eyes asked if he wanted help, but he decided that he didn't. He lowered himself slowly to the ground, and scooted over until he could sit with his back pressed against the tree trunk. For a second he thought that he heard someone say his name as a gust of cold air blew around him.

He turned at the sound of the swing creaking, and there was Lizzie, flying higher and higher, her hair streaming out behind her like dark wings. Beautiful, he thought, and then stopped himself. No. There was no way that would ever happen. She was the fairy, after all, and he just the cripple.

Her eyes had been closed as she swung, but they opened as though she could feel him watching her. Those piercing green eyes, shining at him in the gathering dusk. She smiled and came to a stop, before running over to him like a little girl.

"This is so beautiful, Colin," she said, and the was pure joy as she looked at him.

"I know," he breathed, her perfume carried to him on a gentle breeze- a mix of spices and musk and citrus that reminded him of Christmas.

She leant in to him, and the scent of her was overwhelming. Her eyes were fixed on his and he couldn't look away- it was as though he were drowning. Drowning in the endless emerald of her eyes. His heart was beating so hard that he fancied she could hear it, and his hand moved of his own accord, reaching up to tangle in her hair.

He forgot everything. Mary and Dickon were no longer there, it was just him and Lizzie, alone, in their nest. Her, with her flushed skin and glittering eyes and beating heart and perfect lips. Her nose pressed against his as her arms reached up around his neck and pulled him down towards her. Her lips met his ear, teeth grazing his lobe.

"I think Jane knew exactly what she was doing."

He laughed huskily, chest vibrating against hers as he answered. "Rochester didn't deserve her."

And then their lips met.

* * *

"Ahem," said Mary, feeling faintly embarrassed. "When you two have quite finished, we've got things to do."

Colin and Lizzie broke apart, both flushed despite the cool air.

Mary's own hand was twined around Dickon's, and she had to fight to overcome the sudden urge to kiss him. She felt the warm pressure on her palm, and then Dickon spun her around so that he could place both hands on either side of her face, and plant a kiss on the tip of her nose. She began to melt into him, but his lips grazed her ear and he whispered, "Not now, Mary."

She sighed lightly, and felt his chest hum as he laughed. They broke apart and headed towards the tree, where Colin and Elizabeth seemed to be studiously looking away each other.

"So, Lizzie," Mary said as she sat down. "What does Colin need to do?"

"Well," her friend began, a faint pink still colouring her cheeks. "_He_ doesn't really need to do anything. If he lies down, we should start to try and work his legs- in a sort of bicycle motion, I suppose."

"Got that Colin?" asked Mary, eyeing him.

He nodded, and proceeded to lie down, wincing as a twig jabbed his head.

"I wouldn't mind a cushion," he said. Mary was just about to see if there was one on the wheelchair when Lizzie trotted over and Colin settled his head in her lap. "Thanks," he said, flushing again.

Mary rolled her eyes at Dickon as the two of them arranged themselves holding one leg each. She never thought she'd seen Colin blush so much!

They began to move his legs in slow circular movements, one after the other.

"Can you feel that at all?" Mary asked Colin, after a few repetitions.

"I can feel your hands a bit, I think," he replied, after concentrating for a minute or so.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"No, I can't really feel them moving. It's more weird than anything else- I can see them moving, but I can't feel it. Where your hands are I think I can feel some warmth, though."

Mary looked up at Lizzie for some sort of comment.

Her friend shrugged. "I'm not a doctor, but by doing this, the muscle should build up and not waste away." She looked down at Colin's head in her lap. His eyes were closed, his face slightly scrunched in concentration. "Don't expect any miracles though."

"We won't," said Mary, "But it's worth a try."

"Definitely."


	14. No-One Else Will Have Me

Mary was crouched on the ground in the Secret Garden, fork in hand. The area where the snowdrops would soon appear needed clearing, and _someone_ had to do it. Colin was curled up in the Library- Mary let him off because he would probably get too cold outside- and Lizzie was reading to some of the soldiers. Dickon was busy working in his mother's garden, and so Mary was all alone. She didn't really mind being alone, as she was actually quite a solitary person, although she loved the company of a select few. Being back at Misselthwaite made her realise just how busy London had been, and just how much she had disliked it. The girls had been giggly and simpering, and acted as though they knew absolutely nothing about anything. The men were as flirtatious as the women, except they were often drunk to top it off. In truth, the only person that she actually liked in London was Lizzie, and, _surprise surprise_, Lizzie had fled it too. It was odd, Mary thought, just how easily her friend had slotted into life in the country. Considering Lizzie was definitely a city-girl- her parents owned an estate in Norfolk, but shunned it in preference for their London townhouse- she seemed to have a strange affinity for Misselthwaite. Colin probably helped, though.

Mary really had no idea what was going on with those two. One minute they had mortally offended each other, and the next they were acting like courting lovers! She wasn't sure either one was serious, but perhaps that was a good thing. She didn't want to be stuck in the middle of her beloved cousin and her best friend. Sighing, Mary drove her fork into the frost-hardened earth. They were both as contrary as each other.

Mary didn't hear the soft footsteps behind her until it was too late. She was a prisoner in an embrace, and she leant back into the familiar chest as the strong arms encircled her.

"Tha' shouldna' sneak up on me, Dickon."

He laughed low in his throat.

"I couldna' help it. Tha'rt too easy to sneak up on."

He bent his head down to kiss her neck. "I canna' kiss thee when tha'rt wearing a scarf!" His voice was playful, smiling.

It was her turn to laugh. "Then kiss me somewhere else."

"Where?"

She twisted around until their noses touched. Her lips met his as though they were made for them, like the final piece of a puzzle. It was a light kiss, short and teasing.

"There," she replied, tilting her head back to look at him.

"What will I do wi' thee, Mary Lennox?" He asked, tracing her nose with his fingertip.

Mary shook her head, impatient. "Kiss me," she growled, leaning into him again.

Dickon's eyes sparkled and he bowed very low. "Yes, Miss."

She glared at him and he laughed, his smile wide and curly.

"Tha's as contrary as tha ever were!"

She pouted in response, and he bent his head to meet hers, russet hair against blonde. The kiss was longer this time, deeper, more desperate.

"Mary-" His mouth was still on hers, nose pressed against her cheek.

"Don't stop," she breathed, hands tight in his hair.

"Mary!" He broke away from her, cheeks red. "Will tha' marry me?"

She pulled back from him, looking up, breathless. Messy red hair, wide mouth, nose that turned up too much, freckles. Patched clothes. Muddy fingernails. Worn boots. Blue eyes. Those beautiful, unchanging, round, _angelic_ blue eyes.

"I suppose I'll have to," she said, voice teasing, although she could not quite hide the emotion beneath from him.

"Thank God," he said, breathing in the scent of her lemon soap as he buried his face in her hair. Then he played along. "But why?" He wanted to hear her say it.

"No-one else will have me." She was smirking, but her eyes were still full of emotion.

"Oh," said Dickon, leaning in to kiss the top of her head. "That's not what I heard from Colin. What about Edmund Harries? Who's he?" There was a hint of jealousy behind the light tone of voice.

"Mr. Edmund Harries is exceedingly rich, exceedingly well-connected and an exceedingly good catch." Mary smiled up at Dickon.

"So why choose me?"

Mary pulled his face towards hers. "It must be," she paused and stood on tip-toe to whisper in his ear. "Because I love you."

He stepped back from her, face glowing, and reached to his pocket, usually sure fingers trembling slightly as he pulled out the box. Inside was a dainty gold band with a single diamond set into it. It was simple, small and utterly perfect.

"It's not much," he began awkwardly, but was silenced when Mary kissed him. The kiss was sweet and tender and so unlike Mary that it made his heart skip a beat.

"Be quiet, Dickon. It's beautiful." She slid it onto her finger and stood for a while, heart swelling with such a furious happiness that she couldn't speak.

She pulled him down to sit next to her and they were silent, digging side by side. That, Mary thought, was one of the things she loved about Dickon. He was so calm- only he could propose to her and then continue working around the garden like normal. But she liked that. Normal. No huge fuss, just continuing the way it always had been, but now she would have Dickon next to her always.

"When should we tell them?" she asked, stabbing at a particularly stubborn weed. "Tonight?"

Dickon threw a mass of twigs into the barrow behind him before replying.

"Your Uncle already knows- I went an' asked for his blessin' before I came to thee. I wanted to do it properly."

"What did he say?"

"He said that he knew I loved thee and that I'd care for thee, and he told me to ask soon because tha was gettin' impatient. Was tha?"

"Nowt o' the sort!"

Dickon chuckled.

"We should announce it at dinner, though," said Mary. "Even if none of them are surprised."

"What about Colin- will he be surprised?"

"I shouldn't think so." Mary laid down her fork and looked up at the clear, cold sky. Twilight was gathering, the sun climbing down towards the horizon. "Where will we live?"

Dickon set down his trowel, and pulled her onto his lap. "Well, Mr Archibald said there was an empty cottage on th' moor. He'd give it to us, he said, as a weddin' present. It'll need doin' up, mind."

Mary's head tilted to one side. "How long will that take?"

Dickon grinned at her impatient face. Mr Craven had been right. "Eh, I don't know."

"We should get married in spring."

"Not summer?"

"No, spring's more special."

"Aye." _And spring's earlier. _Dickon nodded. "Where?" He was enjoying watching Mary plan their wedding in her head. No doubt she'd change her mind about the plans within the week.

Mary thought, face scrunching up. "Well, the ceremony should really be in a church. We can have it in the Moor Church!"

"Not Thwaite? Or London?"

She shook her head. "No, definitely not London. I wouldn't mind Thwaite, but the little church on the moor is so beautiful."

"Mmm, it is that."

"Besides, it's where Uncle Archie married Aunt Lilias, so I think he'd like it to be there."

Dickon agreed- they could get married in a coal mine, as long as they were together- and gazed up at the orange sky. "We'd best be goin' in. I'd better get changed if we're goin' to announce our engagement."

Mary turned around to smile at him at the word _engagement_, and squeezed his hand. He clasped hers in a bear grip and they walked through their garden and back to the house together.

* * *

Archibald looked up as his niece swished into the room and sat down gracefully at the table. Funny, he'd never have thought of Mary as graceful before she went to London. She was wearing a dark blue dress, and sapphires gleamed in her ears. For a second she looked so much like Lily that his heart stopped. He wondered if Dickon had proposed to her yet. Mary didn't _look_ different, and yet she seemed to be glowing with satisfaction. _I think he has. Will they announce it today?_

When Dickon had come to Archie to ask for Mary's hand in marriage, there was nothing Archie could do but agree. Dickon may not have a high social status, or money or a house, but he loved Mary more than any heir that she met in London ever could. Besides, thought Archie, what a hypocrite he'd be if he refused to let Mary marry a man he deemed 'unsuitable', despite her loving him. He wouldn't listen to opinions. If he'd ever listened to opinions, he'd have had no wife, no child and no family. He'd be a hunchback, locked up alone in his tower. Actually, without Mary, he'd still be alone. His wife was gone and there was nothing that she could have done about that, but, without Mary, his son may have been gone too, and he'd have no joy in life.

He looked across at his son now. The same cocky son who'd stood on the platform and told him that nothing would happen to him. Archie sighed. Life always seemed so unfair. And yet, Colin seemed to be taking his change of circumstance relatively well. He could be bitter, true, but that was understandable. If he became too sorry for himself, Mary would shoot him a look across the room, and he's usually pick himself up again. It was Archie who was having the hardest time adjusting. Every time he looked at Colin, an image of an ivory face and thick closed lashes flashed up behind his eyelids. _No, this isn't like last time._ And yet he couldn't shake the terrible feeling that when Mary married Dickon, his son would be left alone again. _Unless Elizabeth stays._

Elizabeth Templeton seemed to have a good influence on Colin. Right now, he was leaning in to say something to her in a low voice, and she replied with something that made him laugh without bitterness. Was there something more than friendship there? Archie wasn't sure. Elizabeth seemed so full of life- he couldn't imagine her spending the rest of her life with a paralysed man. _But,_ said a small voice inside his head, _no-one thought another girl so full of life would marry a hunchback. And yet, she did._

But Elizabeth's parents would never consent.

_Perhaps they would, _the voice said. _She's not their eldest daughter, and Colin will inherit a fortune whether he's in a wheelchair or not._

They'll want grandchildren,he argued, vividly aware that he was having an argument with himself in his head.

_Who's to say that they can't have them?_

He's paralysed! How can he have children?

_Well, you haven't asked him what works and what doesn't. Maybe he can._

I don't want to give him false hope.

_You're ridiculous._

There's no point even thinking about it! Her parents will never agree!

_She's run away from her parents! She could be in London meeting what's left of the eligible bachelors, but she's here, in the middle of nowhere, with your son._

She's here because she wanted to help the soldiers.

_Colin's a soldier. He needs help._

Be quiet!

_Aah, I win. _The voice was smug.

A soft but insistent clinking broke him from his thoughts. Mary was tapping the edge of her wine glass with her spoon, and looking at him expectantly. He looked across at her and smiled.

"Umm," Mary began, nervously. "I'm sure you've all been expecting this, but we thought we'd announce it properly anyway. Dickon and I are engaged."


	15. Splinters

Lizzie's hands shook as she entered Colin's room. The three of them were already gathered around the table, munching their way through breakfast muffins. Colin looked up at her as she sat down, and his gaze drifted downwards to the paper clenched in her fist, eyes widening.

"What's wrong?" His voice was low, concerned.

Silently, Lizzie passed him the paper. She looked down at the food on her plate and felt sick.

"Oh God, Lizzie. When are you going?"

Mary and Dickon looked up at that, their faces clouding with concern.

"What's going on?" asked Mary, tearing her eyes away from Dickon's.

Lizzie turned her head away. She couldn't think about it.

"Her sister's caught Influenza," said Colin quietly.

Mary gasped, and Dickon shook his head in sorrow, his mouth downturned at the corners.

"Lizzie, you can't go! What if you catch it too?" Mary's voice was raised and she was looking to Dickon for support.

"I have to. They're my family." Lizzie's voice was lifeless- so different from her usually animated tone.

"But-"

"I have to, Mary!"

There was a silence, and Colin stared down at his breakfast, suddenly feeling nauseous.

"Which sister?" asked Mary, tentatively.

"Iz."

"Oh, no..." Isabelle was Lizzie's younger sister- she was only 13, and a sweet little girl with dark curls and large brown eyes. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Lizzie smiled sadly and shook her head. "You've got a wedding to plan, Mary."

"We can put it on hold-"

"No. Don't do that."

"Lizzie-"

"I'd best go and pack." She stood up and walked shakily from the room, tears prickling in her eyes.

* * *

There was a soft knocking at her door. Lizzie was sat on the bed, suitcase lying open, clothes strewn around the room.

"Who is it?"

"Me."

Lizzie got up slowly, and opened the door just wide enough for Colin to push himself in. She sat back on the bed.

"What do you want?" Her eyes were red and her hair loose, hanging around her shoulders in her usual dark wings, though they were now sad and drooping. It crossed Colin's mind that Lizzie's hair was now acting as the curtains which she liked to hide behind.

"I came to say goodbye, I suppose."

She looked up at him and smiled wryly. "It's not goodbye forever."

"I know." He sighed and twisted his fingers together. "I just feel like everyone's leaving me."

She shook her head. "_No-one_ is leaving you."

"You are. Mary and Dickon are. My father probably will."

"Mary and Dickon aren't leaving you," she said.

"Yes, they are." He slumped in his chair. "They'll go off and live together and have children and forget about me."

Lizzie laughed at him. "I don't think Mary could forget about you if she tried."

"You don't understand! Dickon makes her forget about me."

She frowned and tilted her head slightly to one side. "Are you jealous of Dickon?"

Colin laughed shortly. "In a way, I suppose. Mary always preferred him to me."

Lizzie gazed at him intently, wondering if this was the most open he'd ever been with her, and then shook her head. "I don't think she does."

His hands had found her knitted bed throw, and he was pulling at a loose thread, watching the tassel unravel between his fingers. "There was a moment, when we were younger, when it finally hit me that she would always prefer him."

"Tell me," she said, gently removing the throw from his hands.

"We were in the garden, and Mary and Dickon were on the swing. I was taking photographs, and I looked up and they were staring at each other. Like there was no-one else in the world except them."

"What did you do?"

Colin grinned despite himself. "I shouted until I got their attention."

Lizzie snorted. "Trust you."

Colin withdrew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her, suddenly serious. "I wrote you this. Don't open it until you're on the train."

She took it hesitantly. "It's not a declaration of love that's going to force me to jump from the moving train and stumble my way back across the moors, eventually collapsing from sheer exhaustion, is it?"

Colin blushed. "No. It's just... something that I think I owe you."

"What could you possibly owe me?" Her voice was incredulous. "You've given me... everything." Then she blushed too.

"Nothing, really." His hands were now running anxiously over the armrest of the wheelchair. "It's nothing. Just... an explanation of sorts. Because I really do think that I owe it to you."

Lizzie shook her head and smiled. "You're an enigma if there ever was one, Colin Craven."

He smiled at her sheepishly. "You're not the first to tell me that. Oh, and here. For the journey." He handed her a green leather bound book. "You left it in the library."

"Thank you. I'm surprised you could bear to pick it up."

A devilish smile formed on his lips and his eyebrow quirked upwards. "Only for you."

She elbowed him and rolled her eyes. "Find yourself a nice wife."

He was silent as she locked up her case and walked from the room. She turned back once, and thought she saw a shadow pass over his face. "Goodbye, Colin Craven."

As she strode away, she thought she heard him say something. She shook her head sharply and didn't stop walking until she was in the carriage and rattling away from Misselthwaite, back to London. Back to reality.

* * *

_Dear Lizzie, _

_ I decided that I owe you an explanation concerning my opinion of the locking up of Bertha Rochester. You see, I once knew a boy who had been locked in his room for 10 years- since he was born. Everyone thought he would die young, and so his father shunned him, and he was spoilt beyond belief. You might say he was treated as a Rajah, and he was rude and selfish and proud. His invalidity was in fact a figment of his own imagination, but was made real by the apparent professional opinions of doctors, only to be proved wrong when he met a child of his own age, who told him in no uncertain terms that there was nothing wrong with him. You understand, therefore, why I find the concept of locking up 'mad' people uncomfortable, as the boy was once described as 'half insane with hysteria and temper', and yet there was nothing actually wrong with him that childish company could not solve. It is also why I rarely listen to the opinions of others, and have an instinctual aversion to doctors. The boy taught me so much about life and loss and what really matters. I can't thank him enough for that because, without him, I wouldn't be who I am today. _

_For the record, I don't think that Jane is stupid, either. Impractical and driven by her heart, yes, but not stupid. In fact, I admire her for not caring about what anyone thought, and marrying the man she loved, despite everyone thinking that it was a bad decision. I should be grateful, I suppose, that some women do not care about blindness or scars or being able to walk. My mother married my father despite him being more Quasimodo than Mr Darcy (though Mr Bingley would perhaps be preferable in terms of personality), and I would not be here if she hadn't. So, I suppose I am apologising, and I hope this helps you to solve the enigma. _

_I hope you find your Rochester, Lizzie- someone who can give you everything you've ever wanted. I trust you to not make a rash decision, and I hope you'll bring him to Misselthwaite to meet me one day. To be perfectly honest, I'd approve more of a St. John than a Rochester, but hopefully he'll be a St. John that you love, and so you'll have the best of both worlds. _

_Give your family our regards, and please tell them that we are all praying for Isabelle. If there is anything you need, do not hesitate to ask. _

The final part of the letter was a series of crossing-outs, though Lizzie could just make out a letter or two here and there.

_C### b##k ###n, ev####n# i# ##av#n# m#_

_I'#l m### y##_

_# t###k I ###e #o#_

_We'll all miss you,_

_Colin _

* * *

Curious, she took out a pencil and began to decipher the writing that Colin hadn't wanted her to see.

_Come back soon, everyone is leaving me. _

_I'll miss you._

_I think I love you._

The pencil dropped to the floor with a clatter, rolling down the carriage.

_My God,_ thought Lizzie. _I've just left my Rochester. I've left him there, and I'm running towards a St. John. What have I done? _

There was a crunching noise, and Lizzie looked up to see the pencil in two pieces, splintered wood scattered across the floor.

**As always, reviews would be really helpful to let me know if you are enjoying this story, and if it is going in the right direction! Thanks! :) **


	16. Sorrow and Stables

Lizzie was perched on the windowsill, forehead pressed against the cold glass, condensation running down her cheek like tears. She'd say that she felt completely emotionally drained, but even then she would have to _feel _something, and she felt nothing at all. Just a numbness. She wondered if this is what Colin felt. Or rather, what he didn't feel. She unfolded the paper again. It was worn smooth by the constant handling and had become almost transparent in places.

_I hope this helps you to solve the enigma. _

Well, no Colin, it hasn't. If anything, it had made things all the more difficult to solve. Because that letter had made her realise just how much she cared for him, and just how much she had walked away from.

She crumpled the letter in her fist, real tears now joining the condensation on her cheeks. Why does everything happen at once? There had been years of being ignored because she wasn't horribly vivacious, and then finally she was treated like an equal- her opinions were listened to, her humour was appreciated, and someone would discuss novels with her. Finally it had happened, and now all that had been snatched back, leaving her with even less than before, because now she knew what it felt like to be wanted, and she missed it. On top of that, she felt selfish and uncaring because she was moping around by herself when her little sister was lying upstairs battling Influenza. Influenza that was, according to her mother, Lizzie's fault, because if she hadn't wanted to help the troops, Isabelle wouldn't have either, and it was from a hospital that Iz had been visiting that she'd caught the infection in the first place. That was the thing that Lizzie could bear the least- the suggestion that she was responsible for her sister's illness. Suppose Iz died? Would that be Lizzie's fault too? Her mother would never take any responsibility. She could have stopped Iz from going! She'd stopped Lizzie, after all! But then, she never could say no to Isabelle.

Emmeline was no help. Lizzie's eldest sister was too busy socialising to tend to her little sister. Once again, Lizzie's mother was not on Lizzie's side.

_"Emmy shouldn't have to stop looking for a husband because poor Isabelle is ill. Really, Elizabeth, you do say the silliest things!"_

_"Perhaps if you were out socialising like Emmy always is, you would find a suitor too. How can you complain when you don't put yourself out there, Elizabeth? These things take time, and effort on your part, and you just do not try hard enough!" _

_"Elizabeth! Considering that it was your foolish and selfish desires that put Isabelle in danger, you could be a little more apologetic, and a little less criticising of Emmeline!" _

It had been that last comment that had caused Lizzie to really flare up. It had gone something like this:

"I'm sorry, Mother, but how is wanting to help our wounded a 'foolish and selfish desire'?"

"How dare you question me! You should have put your family first!"

"I've put my family first for years, and when I finally wanted to do some good, you prevent it! Why, Mother?"

"Because you need to find a husband!"

"I'm only eighteen!"

"I was married with Emmeline on the way when I was eighteen."

"This isn't 1897 anymore, mother! Lots of girls are getting married later. Look at Emmeline! She's twenty and she still hasn't found a husband!"

"Emmy is an exception. She's waiting for the right man."

"Emmy's always an exception! And why can't I wait for the right man?"

"You aren't an heiress like Emmy-"

"Oh, lucky her! So, because I'm the middle child, I should accept whoever will have me?"

"Yes."

"But why? Why don't I deserve someone who loves me for who I am, and not for my father's fortune?"

"Because no-one marries for love!"

"Don't you love Father?"

"Of course I do- what a terrible thing to say!"

"You said no-one marries for love."

"I didn't marry for love, but I learnt to love your father."

"You mean you learnt to love the luxuries that his fortune brought you."

"Elizabeth Templeton! How dare you speak like that to me? Your own mother!"

"I should be more like Emmeline."

"Yes, you certainly should!"

"Well, I'm very sorry that I am not a dull, unintelligent, simpering blonde like Emmeline. But if that's what it takes for fashionable, rich men to want to marry me, I'd rather be a nun!"

"What is the _matter _with you, Elizabeth?"

"I've realised that I want to be loved, and not passed from my father to my husband like a hand-me-down. I am going to my room now, Mother, and I shan't be down for dinner. Please give my _sincerest _apologies to our guests, and tell them that I have the most frightful headache. Oh, and feel free to tell them just who caused it!"

* * *

Mary was happy. She smiled absentmindedly to herself as she twiddled the ring on her finger. Almost everything was right with the world. The stables were large, a vaulted wooded ceiling stretching above her head, stalls lining one wall. At one end, two had been knocked down and a wall built up to house a smart black motor car which was the chauffeur's pride and joy. Cars would never replace horses, for Mary at least. The exhilaration of galloping free across the moors could never be replicated by a machine. The thought of knowing that you were both in control and entirely out of it, watching the horse's ears flick forwards as he anticipated the speed, that soaring, flying feeling you got where you felt that nothing could ever stop you, nothing could ever bring you down...

The smell of the stables engulfed her. Mary could never understand how some people didn't like it. The horses themselves smelled sweet and, well, like horses, and this was joined by leather and hay and polish and bran to create that heady blanket that everyone who has ever loved horses would recognise anywhere.

A soft whickering reached Mary's ears as she made her way down the line of horses, who were watching her carefully with dark, shining eyes. Uncle Archie had bought Mary a horse for her 14th birthday, after she'd learnt to ride well on Jump anyway. Dickon's moor pony was a strong, wiry little thing who still liked to follow Dickon wherever he went, despite the fact that Dickon was now much too tall to ride him. By the time Mary was 14, she'd also sprouted up somewhat, and so after months and months of begging, her Uncle had given in and bought her a horse of her own.

She was a dainty thing- a beautiful dapple grey with a darker mane and tail and soft grey muzzle. Mary had named her Alaska, and the two of them had spent many a happy day cantering across the moors with food crammed hastily into Mary's pockets. Soon after, Colin had decided that he too would like a horse, and his competitive spirit meant that he caught up with Mary fairly easily. Poor Colin, thought Mary. Would he ever be able to ride again? He still wheeled himself down to the stables most days, but Mary would never bother him when he was here. She seemed to spend a lot of her time not bothering him these days.

Giving Alaska a quick pat, Mary spun around to collect her saddle from the wall opposite the stall. It was a proper saddle, not one for side-saddle, as Mary could not abide them. Nor could she abide wearing a split skirt for riding- it was still far too impractical. Instead, Mary had on a pair of Colin's old breeches, and his hunting jacket was slung over the top of a loose shirt. Her hair was hanging down her back in a low plait. Oh, if the fashionable ladies of London could see her now! Mary smiled to herself as she lowered the saddle carefully onto Alaska's back. The horse turned and regarded her with a dark eye, nudging gently at Mary's bulging pocket.

"You can have it later, Alaska. It isn't for now."

Alaska snorted and shifted from hoof to hoof.

"Later." Mary's tone was firm.

She took up the bridle and pushed the reins over the horse's head. Putting the bit to Alaska's mouth, she pressed gently, waiting for her to accept it. Alaska didn't budge. Frowning, Mary inserted her thumb into the side of Alaska's mouth, pulling down to prise it open. "Come on, Alaska," she coaxed.

The horse bit down harder.

"Fine!" Mary reached to her pocket and drew out an apple, offering it to the horse, who was looking particularly smug. Alaska took a bite, chewed excruciatingly slowly, and then opened her mouth for the bit.

"You _are_ a naughty horse!" Mary scolded, though her fingers still stroked Alaska's nose lovingly. "You wouldn't mess around for Dickon, would you?"

"Who wouldn't mess around for me?" asked a voice, stepping into the barn. Mary's face lit up when she saw him.

"Alaska was being stubborn again," she said, giving Dickon a quick kiss.

"Tha's as contrary as thy mistress, Lassie," Dickon grinned, ruffling the horse's forelock.

Alaska answered with some snorts and puffs, and pawed the ground with her front hoof.

"She says tha' she could nowt be as contrary as thee, Mary."

Mary frowned. "Well, you can tell Alaska that if she's going to be like that we won't go for a ride at all!"

Dickon whispered in Lassie's ear, and she butted him gently with her head.

Mary rolled her eyes. "Sometimes I think you have more of a relationship with my horse than you do with me."

"O' course not," Dickon said. "But Lassie an' I both know thee very well, Mary Lennox. She says tha' tha would o' gone for a ride whatever she did. An' we all know tha's true enowt."

"Aye," Mary agreed. "I dare say it is."


	17. Playing Houses

**Just a little mid-week present :) **

"So where are we going?" asked Mary, Alaska's steady rhythm making her almost sleepy.

Dickon had a picnic basket strapped to the saddle behind him, and the two horses were walking amicably side-by-side, nodding their heads together. Mary's leg would occasionally brush Dickon's, sending a shiver up her spine every time it did so.

"Tha'll see." Dickon smiled to himself.

"Can't you just tell me?"

"No, it's t' be a surprise."

"I don't like surprises." Her voice was light, teasing.

"This one's different."

She cocked her head on one side, a smile playing on her lips. "How do you know?"

"Oh, I know everythin'."

Mary pretended to scowl at him, but Dickon just smiled at her like nothing would ever take his happiness away.

"Can we at least go faster?" she asked, itching to feel the wind push her hair back from her face. Dickon didn't answer, but Mary saw Ollie's head snap up and his ears flick forward as he responded to Dickon's aids. Colin's horse missed his master, but at least Dickon was the next best thing. Mary followed suit and Lassie broke into a gentle trot, easily matched by the powerful chestnut next to her. Colin had originally named his horse Odyssey, but the little stable boy who groomed him had taken to calling him Ollie, and the name had stuck.

"I said _faster, _Dickon!" Mary teased, pushing Lassie harder.

Dickon looked across at her, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief, leaning forward to whisper in Ollie's ear. It was as good an aid as any whip. Ollie launched himself into a canter, hooves flying faster and faster until Dickon finally responded and lifted out of the saddle, allowing the horse's head to stretch forward, straining for more speed.

_Finally,_ thought Mary as she followed suit and Alaska picked up speed, snorting with joy as she chased Ollie. Air was flying past Mary, and her loose hair was streaming behind like a golden banner proclaiming her joy. Lassie may have been smaller, but she was much lighter than Ollie, her frame like a coiled spring. As she gained on the other horse, she pushed on even faster, until Dickon was leading by less than a metre. The pit of Mary's stomach was churning, the pure thrill making her breathless and euphoric. There was nothing in the world that could compare to that feeling. Sje glanced up ahead of her, the unspoken finish point was coming close.

"Come on, Lassie!" Mary cajoled, but Lassie was galloping flat out now, gaining on Ollie.

There was less than 50m to go when Mary saw Dickon's eyes crinkle at the corners as his lips moved, urging Ollie on even faster. Animals would do anything for Dickon, and the large horse was no exception. Ollie's final burst of speed was unlike anything Mary had ever seen before, and poor Lassie was pipped to the finish line by several metres.

"Damn you, Dickon Sowerby," Mary panted as she brought Alaska back to a trot. "You aren't allowed you use your magic!"

"T'isn't magic, Mary. Tha _knows_ that." He grinned at her, patting Ollie's neck in a way that clearly said it _was _magic.

Mary tried to glare at him, loosening her reins to allow Lassie to stretch. No-one could glare at Dickon for long however, and the sigh of his red cheeks and upturned mouth was enough to make a smile spread back over her face.

"Where exactly are we? I haven't been this far in this direction in years!"

Dickon smiled mysteriously. "I told thee, tha'll see soon enowt." He paused to guide Ollie around a large rock. "In fact, tha'll see in jest a sec," he said, nodding up ahead.

They entered a tree tunnel, not unlike the one leading to the Manor. It had evidently been planted by humans, as the rest of the moors were bare except for the low-lying gorse and heather which spanned for miles. The tunnel was short, and Mary could see a bright glimmer of light from the other end, though the sun was facing into the tunnel, preventing her from seeing what lay past the branches. They soon exited the walkway, Dickon ducking several times to avoid low-hanging branches, and when Mary's eyes had adjusted to the sudden light change, she gasped.

It was a two-storey red-brick farmhouse of Georgian style, a green-painted door set right in the centre, a tall sash window on either side. A low stone wall surrounded the house with room to spare, and, while the space was currently bare, Mary could envision the garden it would one day become. There were, however, vines climbing up the walls of the house, partially obscuring one window like an outdoor curtain, swinging gently in the breeze. Mary knew without close examination that they were roses, and that in summer the wall would be a canvas of pinks and whites, beautiful beyond comparison.

She nudged Alaska onwards, halting and dismounting next to a line of iron rings, set deeply into the wall. Dickon handed her a halter that had been tied to his belt, and Mary secured Lassie, giving her a kiss on the nose, before stepping over the wall and into the garden. Standing by the front door, she could see that the wall stretched away a good deal, marking a large boundary to the property. Further to one side was a smaller building with a large wooden door that could only be stables, and then beyond that was open moor, as far as the eye could see.

Her fingertips found the wall of the house and spread out until her palms were flat against the brick, which had warmed a little in the sun. Mary's breath was misting before her, but the sun was warming the back of her neck, creating a delicious mix of shivers down her spine.

Arms reached around her waist, and Mary leant back into Dickon's embrace, kissing his throat.

"Welcome home, Mary Lennox," he said, his voice uncharacteristically husky. "How does tha like surprises now?"

She laughed, her pulse hammering in her ears. "Do I really need to reply to that?"

Dickon chuckled low in his throat, and the vibrations echoed against her cheek. "I think this is answer enowt."

She turned around in his arms to face him, pushing herself on tip-toes to reach his lips. His eyes travelled down her body, and she was suddenly aware that she was wearing breeches, and that quite a lot of her was on show. Her hands pushed inside his jacket, but he drew them out again, pulling off her gloves, reminding her of the first time she'd met him. He stooped, his body fitting perfectly to hers, cradling her with the hands that were always gentle. Her fingers wrapped around him, twining in his hair. He stooped lower in response, and his hands swept down to pick her up. His face was still next to hers as he walked slowly backwards to the door, shouldering it open.

"Shouldn't this wait until we're married?" she asked, not really caring.

He pulled away suddenly, face serious. "Tha's right." He looked down, ashamed, cheeks beginning to burn. "I'm sorry."

She smiled up and him, kissing him softly on the mouth, while silently berating herself for saying anything. "Tha hasn'na got long t' wait, tha knows."

Dickon sighed, his rust-red hair tickling Mary's forehead. "But sometimes th' shortest time can seem like forever."

"That's jes' th' way it is," Mary smiled, wondering when on earth she'd got so wise... And _sensible! _How very unlike her!

"It's jes' th' way."

"Mmm," Dickon agreed, though his downturned mouth told her that he thought it very unfair indeed. He set her down carefully, and she kissed him on the cheek and smiled happily at him.

"Show me around, Dickon. I have to know my way about the place if we're to live here." She gave his hand a tug towards the hallway, and a smile lit up his face.


	18. Lost?

Lizzie entered the room awkwardly, her hands twisting around themselves. Emmeline looked up at her sister's arrival and a faint smile flickered across her lips. Her blonde hair was set in fashionable pin waves, and she wore an ice blue dress with a drop waist, cut to just show her ankles. Her arms were bare and exceedingly pale, like porcelain. The whole ensemble was delectably modern, but Lizzie was sure that their grandmother would not approve. Her sister's blue eyes swept down Lizzie's frame, and she suddenly felt very self-conscious in her old dress. Emmy tilted her head back so that her hair caught the light from the window, and shone more than should be realistically possible. Her lips were full and painted red, and there was a beauty spot just above her lip.

"Elizabeth, darling," she drawled. "Why on earth are you still wearing that old thing?"

Lizzie bristled, her eyes narrowing, though her pink cheeks betrayed her embarrassment. "I've been too busy caring for our little sister to go shopping, Emmeline."

Emmy laughed loudly, the sound like a pealing bell. "One never has too little time to shop. You simply have no care for your appearance whatsoever."

"Did you come here just to poke fun, Emmeline, or was there something that you actually wanted?" Lizzie snapped, her nails beginning to dig into her palm.

"Now, darling, there's no need to be like that." Lizzie's sister stood gracefully and glided across the room. Lizzie knew that if they had both been at a party, suitors would have immediately surrounded her sister, while jealous female eyes would have glared from around the room as the men all made their excuses. At this point Lizzie would usually shrink into the shadows, or wander off to a library where she wouldn't be disturbed. She had never admitted it, but it hurt that she was so overlooked.

"I came to ask you to chaperone me to Teddy's party," Emmy continued, tossing her head. "I will not allow mother to come- she would only be a terrible embarrassment! Clarissa is away for the weekend, and Maria is otherwise engaged. You see," she placed a hand on her hip and flashed a dazzling smile, "you are simply my last resort!"

"Oh, well, when you put it like that-" Lizzie's voice dripped venom.

"Come now, darling, that is not my only reason! Teddy's brother has just returned from America, and I am simply dying to introduce you. You'll hit it off marvelously, I'm absolutely sure!" Emmeline reached for Lizzie's arm, pianist fingers perfectly manicured.

Lizzie pulled away sharply, staring daggers at her sister. "I don't want to go, Emmy!"

"Why ever not? You love Teddy!"

Lizzie allowed herself a half smile. She and Teddy had been close as children, when their nannies had allowed them to play together in the various parks surrounding their homes.

"I saw that smile! You do want to see him!" Emmeline threw back her head, triumphant.

"We've barely said three words to each other since I was ten," Lizzie said, hoping to put her sister off. "He got bored of me and found you instead. You were, after all, the same age as him."

Emmeline put her head on one side and pouted. "But boys are always so dreadfully immature at that age. I really had no interest."

Lizzie cocked her eyebrow. "Had?" She made it a question.

Her sister shook her head as though it were nothing.

"He is terribly eligible now, you know. He's the eldest after all, what with the dreadful business of Hugh running off to join the army-" She trailed off, and for the first time in what felt like years Lizzie could see the cracks in her sister's vivacious exterior. Hugh, Teddy's elder brother, had been Emmeline's childhood sweetheart, and everyone had assumed that they would marry. Sure enough, Hugh had proposed to Emmy when she turned eighteen, and they were happily engaged. But Hugh had disobeyed his father and joined the army, and had been killed in action only three months after he left. Emmeline had carried on after a brief mourning period, but sometimes her deep longing for Hugh broke through, though no-one but Lizzie seemed to notice.

"It's all right, Em," Lizzie said, her voice soft. "You're allowed to be happy."

Emmy leant her head against Lizzie's shoulder, though she had to stoop slightly to do so. "But-" Her voice shook slightly. "Teddy is his _brother_."

"And Teddy's always loved you!" Lizzie's hand flew to her mouth, as if she could take back the words. Emmeline's eyes had widened.

"What do you mean?" Her sister demanded, fingers gripping Lizzie's arm tightly.

Lizzie sighed and ran her fingertips over her own forehead, a sign of weariness. "He's always been jealous. Hugh told me just before he left. I'm sorry-" she took a breath. "I'm so sorry I didn't tell you, Em. I didn't ever find the right time..."

Emmy's face had gone white. "What exactly did he say?"

"He said that- That if he didn't come back, you shouldn't mourn for him. You shouldn't hold back for him. Then he said that Teddy had always loved you, and that he didn't mind if one day you married him. As long as Teddy made you happy... Does he? Does he make you happy?"

Emmeline looked up, smiling through the mist that had drifted over her eyes. "Yes. Yes, he does."

Lizzie nudged her in the ribs. "So, what are you waiting for?"

Her sister laughed, and her blue gaze swept over Lizzie again. "A new dress for you, for a start."

Lizzie grinned. "Mama's going to faint, you know. She's wanted a wedding to plan for so long! You'd think she was Mrs Bennet with all the marriages she thinks she must arrange! She only has three daughters!"

"Maybe I've finally found a Mr Bingley, Lizzie." Emmeline shook her head in wonder and pulled away from her sister, laughing. Lizzie tried to smile, but a cold stone had settled in the pit of her stomach. Because she didn't want a Bingley, a St. John or even a Darcy. She wanted her Rochester.

* * *

Colin flung the book away and hunched over, head in his hands. Not one letter had arrived from Elizabeth since she'd left, almost a month ago. Maybe he was being unfair. She hadn't gone back to London to write him letters, after all. But he was so sure that she would write.

A thought stuck him and he let out a groan. What if she'd realised just what he'd told her in that confounded letter, and wanted nothing more to do with a once partially hysterical invalid? Had he done the wrong thing? Maybe he should go down to London and see her... Or maybe she wouldn't want him there when her sister was ill. Or maybe she wouldn't want him there because she now knew about his past. Or maybe she'd never got to London, because she'd been snatched on the street by a rabid bear! No. That was stupid. He shook his head and stretched his hand out to the table at his side, the glass of water brushing his fingertips. He took hold of it, resting the cool glass against his cheek, which was flushed despite the chill in the air.

The door opened, a cold draft gusting across the room. The fire flickered in the grate and her lowered the glass to the table again, looking up. Mary entered the room, spied him in the corner and came to sit next to him.

"Why are you moping in here?" she asked, eyes wide and slightly concerned. "Are you ok?"

He smiled sadly at her. "I'm fine."

"Of course you are."

"Really-"

"No, not really." Her voice was firm. "I _know _you, Colin. Sometimes I think you forget how well I know you."

He smiled ruefully. "I couldn't forget if I tried."

She eyed him. "So why are you lying to me?"

He shook his head. "I'm not lying."

"Yes," she countered. "You are. Mary cocked her head to one side, examining him as though he were her patient. "Is it Lizzie?"

He couldn't help it- he tensed. "No, why would it be her?"

Mary laughed. "You always were an awful liar, Colin Craven."

He tried to glare, but ended up slumping against her. She sighed, and rested her head on his shoulder.

"She will come back, you know."

He said nothing for a long time, as she watched his eyelashes rest closed against his cheeks. His breathing was slow, and she wondered if he were asleep. Finally his eyes opened, and he shifted his head to look up at her.

"Will she?" His voice was so soft and vulnerable that she was instantly transported back to another moment, years ago. She shook her head gently, forcing her thoughts back to the present.

"Have you actually tried writing to Lizzie?" She was almost reproachful, business-like.

"No," he said, sounding surprised.

She lifted her head up and turned to look at him incredulously. "Why not?!"

He blushed. "Well, I thought that she'd write to me if she wanted to. I didn't want to make her feel as though she had to."

Mary laughed at him before burying her head in her hands, groaning. "Boys!" she exclaimed. "I will never understand you!"

"Why?" Colin demanded, sounding much more like his old self. "What did I do wrong?"

"She'll be expecting _you_ to write to _her_! Honestly, Colin!"

He frowned, as though this were some scientific discovery that he couldn't quite grasp. "But _why?_"

"Just because!" Mary poked him gently in the arm, smiling at his scrunched-up face.

"I don't understand!"

Mary sat back, enjoying watching him be the least knowledgeable one for once. She put on a very wise tone, and said "Sometimes, Colin, you need to just accept things without questioning them."

He looked up at her through his thick eyelashes, grey eyes shining mischievously. "And where would be the fun in that?"

She punched him lightly on the arm again. "Life isn't _all_ fun."

He snorted quietly. "Oh, I know." He brought his hands up to his eyes, peeking at her through his fingers. "Believe me, I know."

Mary smiled and curled her feet beneath her. "Just, write to her."

"I still don't see why I have to do it first-"

"Ugh, Colin!" Mary put her forehead on his shoulder, closing her eyes in exasperation. "Will you ever let anything go?"

He grinned at her. "Do you really need me to answer that question?"

And then they began to laugh.

When Mary had gone, Colin glanced back down at the book by his feet, and resolved to write to Lizzie, whether he understood it or not.

**Thank you very much for being so patient in waiting for this chapter. I've had a big work load recently and have had no time to write! I will try to keep uploading once a week as normal, but if I don't, don't panic! I haven't given up, I've just had no spare time. **

**As usual, reviews are hugely appreciated, so if you have time to leave one, please do! This is as much your story as mine, as what's the point of me writing it if nobody reads it? If there are things you like/dislike, please let me know, as you can definitely influence this story. Thanks again, **

**CityWilderness **


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